Father’s Day 2014

Posted on June 15, 2014 by 40andover

Hallmark holidays suck. At least on Father’s Day. At least for this mother of a father-less son.

I block it every year. I can’t ever remember that it is Father’s Day until we trip over it. And then I think,

“Oh shit, will SOS be ok?”

Ok, I am not a good planner when it comes to this “holiday.” I block it because I cannot conjure up a facsimile dad. There is no vegan turkey for this thanksgiving holiday.

And then I fixate on our aging Dads. Because it is easier.

SOS was not in a great mood today. But, thank G-d, he spent some special time with Cousin Gentle.

The clan gathered for dinner. Still, SOS was in a whiny mood. I assumed it was the Father’s Day thing, but interestingly, he was very cuddly with me. I could not read the signals because usually when he is feeling different about having two moms, he is mean to me. I was bracing for that treatment all day.

At dinner, we toasted our fathers, brothers, uncles, cousins, sons and grandsons. Dad was disconnected and confused. FOPOB was surprisingly present and engaged. The world was upside down.

After the ganza mispocheh (the big family) left, I went into SOS’s room to talk.

“Dude, I want to talk about Father’s Day.”

“Why?”

“Because this is one of those days when I regret that you don’t have a dad, because it feels like everyone is celebrating having a dad and, so today, but really only today, I hate that you don’t.”

“Really, E-Mom? It is ok. It is like being Jewish at Christmas. Is that what you wanted to talk about?”

Ahhhhh. I made special note of the “OMG-you’re-so-lame-how-do-survive-a-day-in-the-world” tone.

I smiled to myself. (I couldn’t give SOS the satisfaction.) And I thought of Crosby, Still, Nash & Young:

And you, of the tender years can’t know the fears that your elders grew by,
And so please help them with your youth,
they seek the truth before they can die.
Teach your parents well, their children’s hell will slowly go by,
And feed them on your dreams, the one they fix, the one you’ll know by.
Don’t you ever ask them why, if they told you, you would cry,
So just look at them and sigh and know they love you.

SOS, my best and toughest teacher, in the subject of life. I learn these lessons because my happiness depends on it.

Happy father’s day to all, whether or not it applies.

The Years Spin By and Now the Girl is 50

Posted on April 30, 2014 by 40andover

Dear Mom:

So I have moved 50 times ’round the seasons.

And my dreams have lost some grandeur coming true.

There were new dreams along the way. Some of them still matter; some were fantasies of youthful exuberance and abject cluelessness.

I am not scared of growing older. (Ok, I am not happy with droopy eyelids you gave me.)

And now I drag my feet to slow down time (or the circles, to keep the Joni Mitchell motif). Really, to hold onto to the stories and memories of you, Dad and the older generation. I look at the old pictures to remind me of the people who made me (for better or worse) the person I am today. Those fallible, lovable and wildly eccentric (ok, our family once was poor, so I think we only qualify as “crazy”) people.

I am starting to forget some of the stories. Dad has forgotten almost everything. I can’t lose you any more than I already have. And I need room to experience and remember the joys of your grandchildren, all three wonderful boys, and especially my little guy, SOS.

Years ago, when I imagined turning 50, I thought I would have security, maturity and direction in life. And I fully expected that you would be telling me the story about my birth, as you always did. Life doesn’t conform to expectations; they are really hopes and desires locked into a time and place.

Even though life at 50 is nothing as I expected, I feel lucky looking in my rear-view mirror and I am (cautiously) hopeful about the road ahead.

Ok, maybe I am scared a little about the road ahead. I have to remember that I am strong and the road these past years hasn’t been a cake walk and I am still standing. And I have to draw on the memories of those who made me strong without wallowing in the past.

But it is hard when you, my biggest cheerleader, are gone. And sometimes, late at night, when the world is too much with me, I need a guiding hand, a loving voice, and my Mom who had lived through so much, quieting my fears. I try to imagine you. It doesn’t always work.

Tonight, we had a pre-birthday dinner. SOB and I fought over the check. (Could you tell her to let me win just a few times?) SOB and I told the stories you would have told about SOB’s birth, BOB’s birth and my birth on our birthdays. The same stories, over and over again. And they get better with each telling.

One of the best stories concerns SOB’s birth. Aunt Gertie, who had three sons, waited until you opened your eyes to storm into your hospital room and screeched at Uncle Leon [Dad’s brother], “See, Natie could give Elsie a girl!!” Mom, you always said that was the most painful part of childbirth.

Have I mentioned recently how much you would have loved and adored HOSOB? Such a pity you never met. And I know you would be so happy that Cousin Gentle rounds out the crew. I know, I know, why can’t Dallas be closer to New York? You tell me, Mom. You are as close as they get to the Big Guy. Ask Him to work on plate tectonics or something. See what you can do.

Mom, you are the missing person at every gathering, every simcha and every sad time. And I miss your warm hand always reaching out to hold SOB’s or BOB’s or mine. Even at the end, you always reached for us.

And we still reach back, hoping you feel us across the great divide.

I love you forever, Mom.

~ Blogger

Big Game

Posted on February 3, 2014 by 40andover

Yesterday was game day. The big one. The game that unites more Americans in a single activity at the same time than any other event at any other time:

THE SUPER BOWL.

SOS was very excited. I found this odd because SOS is not so much a player as he is a (more-than-slightly reserved) spectator. Let’s be honest, his favorite sport is rigorous reading of incredibly sophisticated tomes.

On Saturday, I asked SOS why he was so interested in the Super Bowl.

“I am interested in all cultural phenomena, [Blogger]!”

Well, all right, then. While I loved to play sports, I am a pop-culture moron. He will be far better equipped for the real world.

As late as Saturday, we were non-committal as to which team to support. The Sea Hawks are from Seattle and we have family in the Northwest Territories. But, Peyton Manning is Eli’s brother and Eli is our home town-ish QB.

Two things tipped the balance in favor of the Sea Hawks: our Washington and Oregon family were in town and we saw the first play of the game which was a disaster.

By 6:35pm on Sunday, we were firmly in the Sea Hawks’ camp.

SOS brought out a football to hold during the game. And, I thought, there are things that all boys do. It is on the Y chromosome, along with smelly feet and spank magazines.

We started to throw the ball around the living room and we “ran the ball in” and tackled each other during some commercials and some play time. All the time, I was scared that his brains will spill out of his head in a bad fall. Nothing more than a few scratches and bruises — on me.

(That boy can tackle. OUCH.)

I had to throw a red penalty schmatah [Yiddish for rag] on our field. And I stood up and declared:

“TOTALLY offensive and painful jab to a mother’s breast. 10 yard penalty. 3rd down. Time-out, [Blogger].”

Then we giggled.

“[Blogger], you are the dad I will never had. But you are also my mom which is a bonus.”

I got misty-eyed and proud. And that is probably politically incorrect, but I don’t really give a damn.

In a split-second, as if to remind me that we are not the family in a Lifetime made-for-TV movie, he announced:

“The Sea Hawks are winning by so much that it is boring. I am going to catch some Downton Abbey until bed. Tell me if anything exciting happens.”

He scurried off into another room to watch a drawing room soap opera already in progress.

But he left the football with me. Thanks, bud.

There, but for the grace of G-d, go I

Posted on January 26, 2014 by 40andover

About a week ago, SOS asked me, “why don’t we give to people who ask for money on the street?”

Oh, no, time for a lesson in cynicism.

“Well, buddy, we don’t know if they really need money and, if they do, are they using the money to buy drugs or food? I used to give to everyone and then I realized the hard lesson that some people are not being truthful.”

My answer did not sit well with me at all. I kept thinking that children will heal the world unless their parents interfere and fill their minds with cynicism.

We were doing errands yesterday.

“Hey, bud. Remember the conversation that we had about giving to people on the streets? Well, I want to talk more about it. We give to charities that help these people. We are willing to pay more in taxes for social programs and we go door to door to help get out the vote for people who will institute these programs. But it doesn’t mean that a particular person will be helped, just that we will make inroads in resolving the problem.”

“Ok,” was SOS’s non-committal answer.

Sometimes, kids ask those questions that make you think about all the juicy rationalizations that make your life livable with a more-or-less clear conscience.

And my easy, arm chair liberal answers didn’t sit well with me either.

I should have said, “I don’t have time to get down and dirty with strangers. I can’t get involved and take on every person’s broken life. And Darwin is right.”

There. I said it. (to you and not to my son)

Last night, I could not sleep. As crazy as it sounds, I kept thinking about Rabbi Hillel: if I am only for myself, who will be for me?

Being homeless is my number 1 neurotic fear. And yet I told my son that it was ok to look away when you see the homeless.

During my sleepless night, all the things that I should have done, shouldn’t have done, did, and didn’t do, haunted me.

Tonight, the three of us had an early sushi dinner. We picked the closest Japanese restaurant because it is beyond cold outside.

We were on our way back from eating lots of sushi and dropping a lot of money on dinner.

As we crossed onto our block, I saw a mother with an elementary school-aged child taking recyclables out of the trash cans. They had a cart like the homeless. To be honest, I have never seen homeless Asians. It was 7pm and that child should be home.

I told POB and SOS to go ahead up to the house. I had to go back. I needed to make sure the girl had a warm coat, gloves and a hat (she did) and that they weren’t going to spend the night outside. I went over to the mother, “do you have a place to stay tonight?” She didn’t understand and was a little afraid. I must have been very earnest in my question. “Do you have a place to stay tonight?” I repeated. I would have given them money for the night, if only because it would mean strength to fight another day and rest for a child before a school day.

Pause. She smiled. “Yes. Yes. Yes. We have a home. Thank you. Happy new year!!”

I smiled and walked away. And I wondered, was she telling me the truth or protecting her pride?

I won’t ever know.

What I do know is that my child pushed me to be more than I was yesterday.

God bless the child.

Life with Father

Posted on January 5, 2014 by 40andover

On Friday night, at 11:35pm, the phone rang for the third time in 30 minutes. Everyone else in the house was asleep (or trying to sleep anyway).

The first two times were wrong numbers. On the second call, I said to the guy, “I am sorry to tell you, but you wrote it down wrong or the woman just gave you the wrong number.” I felt bad for him and angry at Denise — the woman he was calling.

The third time, I was steamed at the spurned would-be lover. And I answered the phone with a serious attitude.

“Hello!!” I answered gruffly and angrily.

“[Blogger], it’s Dad.”

Uh oh. This was late for Dad and there was a worried sound in his voice.

“I don’t know where Mom is. She isn’t home yet and I have been waiting for her. And I don’t know how to reach her.“

My heart leapt into my throat. I knew I could not tell him the truth in stark terms — that Mom is dead almost 11 years, so I opted for: “Um, Dad, Mom isn’t around anymore.”

SIDEBAR: If I were a member of my grandparents’ generation, I would clear my throat (“achem”) and say in a thick East European accent: “Vhat-vhat? [Mom] is dead. Years ago. Go to sleep alrrrready. Staying up won’t bring her back.” So much for the warm and fuzzies.

“I don’t understand!” Dad continued. “No one told me! What kype [“type” and “kind” mashed together — a Dad signature mashable] of an operation are we running around here?“

Ok, so no gentle reminder of Mom’s death was going to snap him back into today’s reality. I swallowed hard and close my eyes. The last thing Dad needed at 11:40pm was to relive Mom’s death.

“Dad, I meant that Mom isn’t around at home tonight. Mom and [SOB] are having a mother-daughter sleep-over. They spent the day together and now Mom is staying over. But don’t call because [SOB] has to get up early for work and they are already asleep, ok?”

“Why didn’t anyone tell me? I have been worried for hours!“

“Dad, I am sure that you were told. It is that sometimes, people forget. And maybe you did, too, at least this time.”

I heard the sound of Dad’s displeasure. A little muttering that he does when he is unhappy or feels he has to worry needlessly.

“This is good news to me.“

Phew. That meant he was willing to accept this explanation. Because this explanation preserved Mom’s existence.

“Everyone will call you in the morning, Dad. I promise everything is ok. Will you go to sleep now?”

“I wish someone would let me know what is going on around here.“

“Daddy, I know. Please go to sleep and you will see everyone tomorrow. Good night. I love you.”

“I love you, too, darling. But we have to change things around here so I am included in the plans.“

“You are so right, Dad. Good night.”

“Good night, darling.“

Next call is to SOB who was asleep. I dialed, she answered, and I cut to the important stuff: “Dad called me looking for Mom. I told him that she was sleeping over at your house but you had all gone to bed already. Just in case he calls. Go back to sleep.”

SIDEBAR: I am closer to my grandparents’ generation than I thought.

This episode is not uncommon for older people at night or in the early morning, after they wake up. On Saturday morning, he was confused but in a different way. By Saturday lunch, he was generally ok. Lunch today (Sunday), SOB reported that, with gentle prodding, he was able to remember that Mom died. But he repeated something he always says: Mom surrounds him in the apartment and he is happy there [a true love story]. And he is comforted and reassured by talking to his kids.

So, he needs to remain shrouded in his happy memories, in that apartment, until he is reunited with Mom. And his children must keep him grounded in the present. Or lie to him, if necessary, until we can be face-to-face until we can gently guide him back.

Next week: Mom goes on a week-long synagogue retreat for the Sisterhood organization. And she is rooming with Judy Zimmerman, our former rabbi’s wife. [Just like she used to.] Are you listening, SOB and BOB?

Daddy’s Angels (but our devils)

Posted on December 3, 2013 by 40andover

Once an elder needs care, it is not so easy as having loving people come into the house and care for him or her.

No, you have given birth to a family unit, with individuals perhaps older than you. Your elder has new kids. No, this is not science fiction. This, THIS, is the new normal.

Dad has four aides — two share the 12-hour day shift and two share the night shift. Everything revolves around his care. Dad is a lovely man and three out of the four aides have become attached to him, and he to them. The fourth one does her job. And that is all we ask.

But in the fight over who is the favorite and who takes the best care of Dad, there is palace intrigue. They check up on each other and rat out each other. As if Dad is some power broker, rather than a jovial, yet clueless man.

So, these last 14 months, I have had to intervene, referee and speak with any number of supervisors in order to keep Dad’s routine the same. Because we, as a family, do not believe that a night aide who is competent, but not warm and fuzzy, should lose her job because she and Dad don’t “connect”. But there have been “cleanliness” issues and Dad is decidedly uncomfortable with her. Reasons enough to make changes but we resisted, out of respect for a person’s right to earn a living.

Now, there is a battle royale between the aide of whom Dad is most fond and the one of whom he is least fond. For those of you who are old enough to remember, think Linda Evans and Joan Collins in Dynasty.

You can imagine how little patience one can have for this when it is playing out in my life. Sometimes I wonder if I am on Jerry Springer, i.e., Shit Time in the Day Time. (Is he still around?)

In the end, we set out clearly both our priorities and must-haves with the agency. And what will make us go to another care provider.

I want everyone to keep their jobs. But Dad needs to be happy. And so I was forced to prioritize jobs and positions. In life, my parents have erred on the side of preserving peoples’ jobs, even if it meant less for our family. I followed suit in the Great Recession (some called me a schmuck, but I can look in the mirror and only worry about wrinkles).

The problems started almost at the beginning, and I needed to make a decision. If the internecine battles cannot be resolved, then I voted one off the island. (Or whatever, the reality TV lingo is; now you know the cerebral punishment that is worst than death.)

I am good with my decision. But I am sad about having to make it. But I will stand by it, especially face-to-face with the reassigned aide. Because I owe the aid that respect.

Maintaining Dad’s world is too important. But not without unintended consequences arising out of new situations and relationships.

Nothing in this life is easy. But the saving grace is that Dad doesn’t even have to know.

He can walk blithely on, happy and kibbitzing with his attendants during the day and sleep as well as possible in the night. And, at long last, after all Mom and he did for us, this is the least we can do for him.

But I didn’t know making this type of decisions in this economy was in the bargain.

Dad is fine; my soul is diminished in the process. This is the reality of caring for the elderly and the infirm. The new world that needs the brave (and the compassionate and the guilty).

Silver Alert (for Dad and Us)

Posted on November 24, 2013 by 40andover

SOB and I had lunch with Dad and his aide on Saturday (and then on Sunday, with SOS).

As is our Saturday custom, we went through the mounds of scam solicitations targeting older people and settled upon two legitimate charities to which Dad could give. We love that about Dad: He always wants to share his good fortune with others.

And he feels so fortunate. Dad was still a little foggy from a nasty fall he took earlier in the week getting out of bed. But to him, he makes sense. So he is happy. The rest? It is our problem.

SIDEBAR: A few days ago, he had gone to bed for the night but needed to use the bathroom and he got dizzy and fell and hit his head against his night table. An ER visit and seven stitches (right between the eyes) later, we prevailed upon Dad FINALLY to let us move that damned night table, which had been in the same position for 50 years, so that something like this won’t happen again. Thank G-d for the night attendant. He was impaled on the the nightstand and helpless. She helped him, cleaned his wound and called us. Yes, yes, yes, yes. I still have nightmares. And I don’t doubt our decision to spend the money for 24 hour care.

We ambled over to lunch. Shredding scams gives me an enormous appetite.

SIDEBAR: Some serious intrigue was unfolding in the COSUD (COffee Shop of the UnDead). We went over to Sam to say hello and asked after Norma. Sam was with a couple whom Dad knows from the synagogue, but Dad cannot remember their names and neither can SOB or I. Sam seemed so consumed with worry that it was heart-breaking. We offered our help and gave our numbers as we have done any number of times before.

The woman of the couple whose name we can’t remember came over to us and started talking to me. “I may be out of line here. . . .” Oh no. What is she going to say? “But Sam is carrying an unbelievable burden and I think he can’t handle it.” Apparently, Norma wants Sam and only Sam to care for her. And he is older than Dad.

“Thank you for telling me. If you think of something we can do, please let us know.” What do I say? Sam won’t tell us that. Maybe he doesn’t see it. We want to help. Our families have known each other for 50 years.

Sometimes, there are no answer for these intractable issues. And then you give thanks for having parents who understood when they needed help and accepted help and guidance from each other and their children.

We sat down and Vassily came to take our orders. “I am saving you for last,” he said to me, “because you are so difficult!” At least he said it with a smile. COSUD is really growing on me.

Today, we wanted to have an activity more than just lunch. Dad is less inclined to schlep to museums these days. Dad needed to keep moving and not give into the weariness and fogginess that resulted from his fall. So, SOB decided on TJ Maxx which is two blocks away. We were going shopping and Dad loves a good bargain. SOB wanted Dad to have warmer pajamas for the winter.

Dad was a little confused about why he was there. Luckily, he was kibbitzing (light-heartedly arguing) with his aide. Like the Odd Couple.

Dad said, “I need boxers. I only have one pair.”

“You have a month’s worth in your drawers!” said his aide.

“But I only wear one pair at a time, so I need more.”

Well, all right then. He has a logic all his own. They were choosing among the clingy, perfect-gay-man body elastic boxers. And arguing whether they would be a good fit. OBVIOUSLY, I couldn’t listen to it, but they were having a good ol’ time. So I went to find SOB.

I found SOB. And then I looked back at where Dad and his aide were standing. All of a sudden, Dad and his aide VANISHED.

SOB and I were getting frantic. “Is it a white alert? A gray alert? An aged amber alert?” I asked SOB, barely containing my concern. “Silver Alert,” SOB said in a calm voice that belied her feelings.

“Wait! I will call [the aide’s] cell!” I dialed.

Voice mail. Turned out we were calling each other at the same time. They were sitting below sight line.

Phew. I bought pajamas and 20-something boxer shorts for the perfect body for my 93 year-old father. Doesn’t matter. It costs what it costs. Sand on a beach, as they say. He is happy and maybe will think he is Adonis. Ewwww Ewwwwww. Stop.

SOB and I crawled into a cab after seeing Dad and his aide safely across streets to his block. Because SOB and I have creepy twin speak, I don’t remember who said what:

“Remember when Mom used to hand the phone to us and say, ‘give your grandparents a thrill’ and we were so resentful of the two minutes out of day it took to call them?”

“I know. Kids don’t know what it means, our generation finally understands, and the grandparents live for it. Knowledge and appreciation come with age. This is the way it is with the young, the middle-aged and the aged. It will never change.”

The insightful comments must be my sister’s.

Why is the voice of a grandchild better than any medicine? Because when, as it happened today (Sunday) at lunch, the young and old enjoy each other’s company, it transcends time.

And brings joy to every generation at the table.

Hope and Change

Posted on September 14, 2013 by 40andover

Yom Kippur ended just two hours ago. Jews fast on Yom Kippur as a part of penance and as a sign of the solemnity of the Holy Day. And as part of our petition to G-d to save our lives and inscribe us in the Book of Life for the coming year.

The fast is from sundown to sundown. Actually, it is longer. It starts when you last eat before you rush to synagogue to get good seats (our egalitarian synagogue does not have assigned seating) until you eat again the next night — at least 25 hours later, when there are three stars in the sky. But really, this is New York. You can’t see stars and you can’t immediately break the fast. First you have to push people into the street to steal the cab and make your way to your break-fast meal. Because no time like the present to start sinning again and, if you are going to start, you need to do it in a spectacular way, like stealing that cab from people who, only minutes ago, you hugged and kissed and wished a happy and healthy Jewish New Year.

But, I digress.

SOS wanted to fast this year. He is only 11 years-old and I was not a fan of his fasting so young. He was determined, and at points during the day, miserable to be around. But he was steadfast and resisted my entreaties to eat. He spent the whole day in synagogue with us, until the Shofar (ram’s horn) blew at 8pm, ending the Holy Day and the fast. We didn’t start eating until after 9pm.

As we walked to the restaurant for our break-fast meal, SOS said, “I won’t survive another minute!!”

“Sweetie, I promise you will. You are hungry but you won’t expire. Some people live like this.”

“E-Mom, do you know that there are so many kids like me who live in the City and go to sleep hungry? I have never felt this hungry before. This is horrible.”

“Can you imagine being this hungry and going to sleep at night or having to go to school?”

SILENCE.

SOS gripped my hand tighter.

“We have to do something about this.”

HOPE AND DREAMS OF THE NEXT GENERATION.

Life in No-Fi

Posted on September 2, 2013 by 40andover

We all await the excitement of that moment — that one moment in time — when we are actually in the “4G air space” so we enjoy the rapid connectivity for which we pay extra every month, but never actually receive because we live in a “3G” world.

But I don’t always want to be connected. I also dream of “unplugged” time during which I can relax and think deep thoughts and ponder the universe or my navel (whichever), over wine, music and a barbeque.

And then I spent a year one week in Wainscot (a sub-township of East Hampton) where Verizon has no “G”s at all.

None.

Zero.

Not a “G” within miles.

To get one bar of “G”-ness, I had to go north, cross a highway filled with aggressive sports car drivers and go in the direction of the North Fork. I am glad that Verizon services the crunchier, family friendly North Fork, but Verizon must take pity on those souls who do not, by choice (rather for familial obligations and homesteading), inhabit the tonier side of the highway.

For work-related calls, I had to drive around for connectivity and then find a safe place to park. I got so desperate that two bars of connectivity was a G-dsend. When asked where I was — just to have idle chit chat until all parties to any given call dialed in — I simply could not mention that I was parked in the lot right near the King Kullen supermarket and, as luck would have it, in front of the liquor store.

Yes, yes, the Hamptons can be glamorous. For some.

Being disconnected was not so bad, except for the essential people whom I needed to call or with whom I needed to be in contact.

But talking on the phone was unbearably like that commercial, “Can you hear me now?” except there was no “good” following the answer.

Only, “You are breaking up. Text me.”

Which even worked for SOB, one of the most technically un-savvy 50-something year-olds I know.

But not for almost 93 year-old Dad who isn’t so great on the phone anyway. Even when I had THREE bars in Montauk, it wasn’t enough for Dad.

Hello?

Hey, Dad! It is [Blogger]!

Helloooo?

Dad! It is [Blogger]!

Helloooooo?

DAD, DAD, CAN YOU HEAR ME? IT’S [BLOGGER]!

Yes, darling, how are you and everyone there?

SIDEBAR: If he can’t hear, then he can’t remember. So, he didn’t really remember where I was or why or with whom. Then everything goes to shit. I get why the phone is hard on the elderly.

We are great, Dad.

Who is there? Where are you?

Dad, we are away for a week. There is bad reception. Can you hear me?

Helloooooo?

DAD, DAD, I will text [SOB] and she will call you and let you know what I said. ok?

Ok, sweetheart, where are you now? Hellooooo?

CALL DISCONNECTS. My heart sinks. I have only confused my Dad, not helped the situation by checking in.

I text SOB. I must speak to Dad through an interpreter while I am in No-Fi land.

No-Fi land. A land of legend and dreams. Of gods and monsters. Of serenity but also of being with the person you have become. Good, bad and, sometimes, ugly.

Still, I yearn for this land.

Or so I think.

No-Fi is in the future — when I don’t worry about parents but my loved ones and children (who may be aliens, depending on age and stage) are with me (which may mean building a compound for the multitudes). But therein lies the rub. If I am not worried about my Dad (or aunts and uncles, or fake aunts and uncles), then that means they are gone.

So, I guess I would rather live in Wi-Fi for as long as I can.

No-Fi is not uncomplicated. It is a place you go to heal after life’s journey relieves you of some of your most beloved companions. And the quiet forces you to think about who you are and what you want to become.

Yes, it is easier to be connected.

Raising a Boy

Posted on August 14, 2013 by 40andover

It is SOS’s first full day home from 7 weeks of camp.

Judging by what came out of his duffel bags, he must have swam in his clothes and then rolled around in sand and soil and let them ferment. Nothing to do but “up-cycle” them as, well, trash.

SIDEBAR: Not all of his stuff is beyond salvage. We just need to dye them all either black or gray so that each article has a uniform color.

The Cape Cod Crud is essentially off (baby oil is a tried and true remedy), but his feet need work. And only boys can scratch themselves without thinking it is a problem. (We have bought copious amounts of the necessary sprays and emollients.) But, so far (a little over 24 hours), SOS is polite and helpful. So camp and communal living must have done something good.

So it was odd, non-linear and totally out of left field when, tonight, in addition to requesting a nail brush and extra-strength shampoo (even though he is having a serious hair cut tomorrow), he asked:

“[Blogger], can I get something in addition to soap? I mean, not just for attracting girls, but so everyone know that I am clean and fresh-smelling.”

Whoa, my little baby has grown. And I am smiling ear to ear. And I am going to research male chastity belts because some of my friends are parents of girls.

40 — oh wait, yikes!! 50 — andoverblog

Aging and living in urban US

Category Archives: Kids