Category Archives: Jewish

Mother to a boy

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Our 8 year-old boy is still very cuddly, but we know it won’t last for long.  Sometimes, when we are watching cartoons on a weekend morning, he says, “E-Mom!! Stop smothering me!!”

I believe it is my divine right of motherhood to be the quintessential overbearing Jewish mother.   I realize now that my mother, and her mother before her, were just trying to stuff a lifetime worth of love and concern into the few years they actually had control over their children’s lives.  And because, when I look at my child, all I want to do (when I don’t want to throttle him) is hug him and tell him how adorable he is and how much I love him.

So, today, when he said those awful words (“stop smothering me!!”) during our cartoon marathon, I reminded him of my divine right to smother and added, “you can’t spell smother without M-O-T-H-E-R!!”

With my new-found appreciation for the cartoon, “Phineas and Ferb” (today they went on a boat for a three-hour tour, a three-hour tour . . . .), I started imitating the show’s evil doctor, Heinz Doofenschmirtz, who invents “-inators” to do evil things to the entire tri-state area (no joke), and proclaimed myself, the “SMOTHER-inator”.

Yes, yes, yes, I know.  Any sane person would not admit to this.

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Pre-High Holy Days Mayhem

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So, because POB (partner of blogger) reminds me that in “good homes” the carpets and the furniture are cleaned annually, and the windows are cleaned twice, before Passover and before Rosh Ha-Shanah, we have been in a cleaning frenzy.  Also the mice episodes gave the cleaning rituals a bit more fevered pitch this year.  Also the bed bug scare in New York had us getting new mattresses, etc.   In short, we are doing what we can to raise the retail sales numbers nationally.  Now, that is patriotism.

Our housekeeper comes on Fridays.  Our housekeeper is a wonderful and robust woman in her 60s who comes from Poland and, as she says, “knows hard vork”.   But since she is in her 60s we try to get others to the hard vork.  In this case, POB and I wanted to lay the cleaned rug down in the dining room (we had already done the heavy lifting in the living room).  This endeavor also involved cutting the mat underneath so that the rug laid properly. 

Here are the many dramas that came into play:  Our housekeeper said, “[Blogger], you are educated; I know hard vork.  Step avay from the mat and I vill cut!”  Ok, POB and I were raised to respect our elders and never to let someone older do work we could do ourselves.  We are also the “employers”, adding another level.  Also, POB is strong like you-can’t-imagine strong. 

So we are all on the floor playing out our social, economic and cultural dynamics.  The window cleaner walks in (we had left the door open for him after the doorman announced him) and sees three woman on the floor with scissors and box cutters arguing over who is cutting the mat that goes under the rug.  He asks, “where do I start?”  Really?  Really?  Is this a usual scene for the window cleaner?

We all stop.  I agree to cede the fight to POB and our housekeeper in order to get the window cleaner guy started as long as I get to move the dining room table.  Pause.  I seeing nodding and I retreat.  A little victory of sorts.

Of course, I should have known that even though I was allowed to move the dining room table, everyone would have an opinion on its precise location.  POB was the most forceful in her opinions.  “A little to the right.”  “Closer to the windows.”  “No, too much.” 

“Are you listening??” 

NNNNNNNNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO, I scream in my head, but all that comes out is “Yes, dear.” 

Back in my head, I am thinking you thought we should get our windows cleaned before a hurricane.  This is not like wearing good underwear in case you are taken to an emergency room.  The hurricane won’t treat us any better.  But then the hurricane passes us and POB is right — again.

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The Clan

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POB (partner of blogger) thinks that my extended family is more properly called a “clan”.  She means that in the best of ways, I am sure.  [Pause.] My family is an odd bunch.  POB didn’t meet many of the older generation, but she feels as if she did because of the way we imitate them.  Memory is very important in Jewish tradition.  And, well, how best to evoke memories than by imitating the idiosyncrasies that made each of them — as shall we say — “special.”

My father was one of five boys and they all had children and most of them had children (and so on).  But we are still not the close-knit, ever-fighting group as existed when all the brothers were alive.  That is probably because in their early years, their survivals were all interdependent.  They were the generation of firsts:  first to go to college, graduate school, move to the suburbs, Florida, buy a Cadillac.  They survived poverty, the Depression, the War and immigrant parents who knew even less than they about their adopted homeland.

There was a family barbeque today that we, the Blogger family pod, had to miss because we are at the beach.  SOB (sister of blogger) sent pictures that captured some of the clan members perfectly.  One picture captures a cousin, the member of our generation who most holds to the standards of conspicuous consumption aspired to by his parents, eating a doughnut while holding forth on an issue.  His father  — my uncle — looms large in my memory and in my imitations.  “Uncle of Blogger” is not descriptive enough.  Hmmm.  Uncle Loud. Yes that is it.  Uncle Loud had a pinky ring that shimmered when he waved his hand.  He had a pencil mustache hidden under a huge nose.  I have a image of Uncle Loud eating a plum, with the juice dripping down to his chin, making politically incorrect pronouncements about everything and anything, mostly about things for which he had no basis or fact.  He also described everything about his life as if we were visiting from a remote island and had never experienced modern conveniences.  In order to evoke the memories of Uncle Loud, I wave my hand with the imaginary pinky ring talking about something (it could be mundane or indeed a previously unknown wonderment), adding, “the likes of which you HAVE NEVEH seen.”  Yes, “neveh”.  The use of Rs in spoken English was an evolutionary advance seen only in my generation — the second generation of Americans (and not all of us received this species-enhancing genetic mutation).

We remain a clan for so long as we, in my generation, retain the vivid memories of the Five Brothers in their primes.  After us, the clan ends because the ensuing generations are scattered and never saw the small apartment on Pelham Parkway where Grandma and Grandpa raised five boys in a two bedroom apartment with one bathroom. Or heard the raised voices that were inevitable when everyone got together for family occasions or religious holidays.  Sometimes it was so loud that more distantly related people would run for cover.

On Sunday nights, at dinner, we try to share these memories with our younger cousins so the bonds stay tight.  But it is a haphazard and ultimately fruitless effort because, like all formerly immigrant families, my children and my cousin’s children and grandchildren are Americans, not children or grandchildren of immigrants.  And, over time, the tie that binds gets frayed and loosens too much.

All the cousins of my generation, save a few, are gathering together for my dad’s 90th birthday in October.  In New York City.  Alert the police and the media.  The Clan of the (Mostly) Civilized Cave Bear will celebrate the Five Brothers and the one who remains and the tie that still binds us (if not our children).

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Wednesday Date Night with Friends

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I arrive early.  A possible stolen moment of mindfulness and relaxation out of a harried day.  But this is New York City, where quiet was expunged from the lexicon long ago.  And I am a consummate New Yorker so I must email something to somebody.  And so I did, to POB (partner of blogger) and FOPOBAB (friends of POB and Blogger) who were joining us for dinner.  Witness my descent into madness.

—– Original Message —–
Sent: Wed Jul 28 18:00:35 2010 [I am 14 minutes 25 seconds early, standing outside a pulsating restaurant]

A hopping place we picked. Such an active bar scene that if you were here early I wouldn’t be able to tell. I am sweltering outside listening to Dancing Queen (they pipe out the music for the pleasure of the passersby). I am trying not to sing along.  I wish there were drag queens around to dance with. My inner 20-something

Sent: Wed Jul 28 18:03:45 2010 [3 minutes and 10 seconds later]

Cabs are so plentiful I want to hail ALL of them.

Sent: Wed Jul 28 18:08:58 2010 [5 minutes 13 seconds later]

Men’s fashion is getting pushed to the limit. It is only ok if [husband of FOPOBOB, who always looks fabulous] would wear it. That is my litmus test.

Can you tell I am overwhelmed by the bar scene raging inside. Ok, a couple with a two year old are considering coming into the restaurant. Mean, evil parents. Toooo much. I am going to try to take a picture surreptitiously. [Unfortunately, I was unable to get my blackberry camera in focus quickly enough]

Sent: Wednesday, July 28, 2010 7:10 PM [one minute two seconds later]

I am going inside. I am brave.

No one would seat me even though we had a reservation.  We ALL had to be there.  I had visions of being in a suburban steak house located in a mall where they say, “Ma’am, if you have a seat after your party has arrived, we will call you.”  And then you wait to hear, “Blogger, party of four!! Blogger, party of four!!”  Ok, I CAAAAN’T GO THERE.

We all arrive and sit down and everybody is chatting and happy to see each other.  I turn to the wife of FOPOBAB and ask, steeling myself for the answer, “how is your sister?”  [note: her sister had cancer].  I knew it was gutsy. 

Although time seems to evaporate when we all get together, it has been quite a few months and ANYTHING can, and does, happen.  I see the look on her face. 

Pause.  Pause.  Momentary out-of-body-experience.  Back in my body and wishing it lacked a mouth.

“She died.” 

[Why do I forget that I have a big S on my forehead for SCHMUCK?]

“We’ve seen you since then but we were with the kids, and I couldn’t go there.”

“Some hors d’oeuvres?” I say.  NO, NOT REALLY.   She tells me a hilarious story that happened as her sister literally lay dying that involved a nun.  There is humor in these moments.  I remember with my mother.  And if you been there, you can very comfortably listen and laugh along.  Because those stories help those still alive cope.

Meanwhile, POB and husband of FOPOBAB are talking about something else.  There is a break in the conversations.  I decided to catch up the others on our conversation. 

I turned to POB and said, “So, I asked about [wife of FOPOBAB]’s sister and she is dead.  But still we both have our appetites.  And, as you know, I have schmuck written on my forehead.”

Silence.

I turn to my friend and say, “in the future, just text us “worry” or “cry” and you fill us in on the details later.  Ok?”

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A Note to My Sister

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Dear SOB (sister of blogger):

I really appreciated your notes of appreciation (“you’re a saint” — but we are Jews, for G-d’s sake) and helpful hints (“take care of [my husband] while I am gone”) this week.

It was epic to set up Dad’s computer and bring him into the 21st century, especially when he was so comfy in the 19th.  He still can’t access email even though I made it as simple as possible.  (I think the double-click is the problem.  He remembers to click once but not twice.  How do you teach a 90 year-old reflexes of the computer age?)  I guess sainthood — or beatification at least — is indeed warranted.

I am sorry you missed Sunday night dinner, but HOSOB (husband of SOB) carried on valiantly.  I appreciated your email reminding me (threatening me?) that HOSOB could only have one dessert serving.  Good thing we had a big enough plate:

 

Just kidding.  He had a small piece and some fruit to amortize the artery-occluding stuff in the chocolate cake:

 

ReeeLAXX, will you?

HOSOB and Cousin Gentle played with SOPOBAB (son of partner of blogger and blogger) and we all learned a lot of things about playing together.  Don’t worry, it was SOPOBAB that did most of the learning.  HOSOB and Cousin Gentle offered helpful hints, like “incorporate everyone’s imaginative story lines” and “don’t drop your pants until you’re in the bathroom, the light is on and the door is closed”.  These are important things that the bigger guys need to say to littler guy.  Lesbian moms just don’t have that authenticity when it comes to bathroom and trouser-dropping etiquette.

FOB (father of blogger) had a little too much wine, but what the heck, at 90, he can live a little.

He is coming over to my office tomorrow so we can go over “some papers”.  Um, BOB (brother of blogger), aren’t you a lawyer, too?  I think I may have to conference you on the phone so you can share these tender moments of wrapping up Mom’s estate and dealing with FOB’s talking about the end of his life.  [Imagine my putting my hands over my ears and making crazy noises to block out the conversation.] Ok, here is the deal:  I may be strong enough to put FOB on the internet, but I am wholly too young and immature for the rest of it.

FOPOB (father of POB) also came.  I think he had a good time, even with a large complement from our side of the family.

Cousin Gentle recounted his tour yesterday of Revolutionary War-era New York.  SOPOBAB was quite taken with the subject and Cousin Gentle needed to make up stuff to satisfy the boy’s endless curiosity.  I had to throw some curves into the conversation to give Cousin Gentle some time to come up with a plausible story line about the slave trade during that time and other assorted information that SOPOBAB needed to know.  FOB was so taken with SOPOBAB’s curious mind that, together with the extra wine, he was pronouncing our child Einsteinian.  Ok, I have to say that SOPOBAB’s questions were impressive in that they were probing and based on some knowledge he has gleaned from videos and books — more than I will ever know about that historical period, I assure you.

Also, Cousin Gentle bought Reddi-Whip after having it at your house.  He served it to a guest at his house.  He said it wasn’t as good as your supply.  Do you have private label Reddi-Whip because you buy it in bulk?  That was also a conversation topic.

Now you are caught up.

I leave on Thursday for my 25th college reunion.  I will blog from there — it will be like Anderson Cooper reporting from the field.

~ Blogger

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Mother’s Day

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Mother’s Day is about me as a child and my mother as the celebrated one.  The one day when we muster up $5.00 for a card and still she did the dishes.  Ok, I am living in the past.  The past is easier; ok, only when nostalgia wipes away the discord and the angst.

So, POB (partner of blogger) and I are the moms of our generation (note that I didn’t say “mothers” — the connotations can be so tragic).  And like our mothers before us, we got cards and did the dishes.  This is how you make people feel good about dishes, you call it a “tradition”.  SOB (sister of blogger) tried to convince POB to have take-out.  POB, in tribute and in astonishing similarity to MOPOB (mother z”l of POB), refused take-out.  POB opted for a horrendously, complicated — and delicious — dinner. (Note to self: block the Epicurious app on her iTouch.)

Between POB’s thinking of MOPOB and my thinking about MOB (mother z”l of blogger), we made quite a pair.  Being a mom is the best thing I do; it is just that I want my mom in the world.  Ok, enough self pity (for now; check back later).

So, we had most of the usual complement of family for Sunday night dinner.  Notable exceptions were a Cousin Hockey Player, and Cousin Gentle who visits his mother’s grave (MOCG) on Mother’s Day.  The warning was clear: be there or be talked about.  Email me if you want the minutes of the family meeting.

FOB (father of blogger) is turning 90 this year.  In an effort to have an intimate setting, the guest list was cut off on a generational level.  Grandnephews and nieces are not invited.  However, my father felt bad about certain members of that generation not being invited.  So, I was designated as the most direct and “Larry King”-like child to dispense the news.  FOB had to use the “facilities” as a ruse to find out whether I told his grandniece that he loved her but, in the interests of familial harmony, needed to exclude her from the celebration.  Meanwhile, I wondered why I was escorting FOB to the bathroom because I am not the MD in the family.  Does anyone else have this family or are we just nuts?

Back to dinner.  Dear Cousin Gentle: HOSOB (husband of SOB) is winning the race for who can eat the most.  He had two helpings on two different place mats (I won’t delve into that):

And there was your plate, sad and empty:

And did we mention the wine and the dessert?

Because you had a good reason for not coming (you were visiting MOCG), we didn’t talk about you — too much. But where were you for the bird walk lead by HOSOB?  Two family gatherings missed.  I understand through the family grapevine that you are alive and well (mother and father of Cousin Hockey Player), so HOSOB promises to let you even the score next time in the food eating contest.  You know that I need to know you’ve had at least one home-cooked meal a week.

Oh, and Cousin Hockey Player, I talked to your mother today.  Yes, I did.  But since you weren’t here last night, you’ll just never know about our conversation. Be there or be afraid.  Very afraid. (Ok, don’t be afraid; I didn’t rat you out as the incredibly hung-over Cousin in an earlier blog.   Ooooops.)

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My birthday weekend

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So, it started in an annoyingly jaded New York way, “I was rushing to my acupuncturist and simply had to stop to take these photos”.

Here are the photos.  As POB (partner of blogger) says, in New York, the rich live cheek by jowl with the homeless, and projects exist side by side with luxury condo buildings.  So, on one of the first beautiful days of the year, restauranteurs put tables outside and voilá, amid the downtrodden and the garbage:

So, trite but still so unbelievable.

I wonder if the needles hurt more because I was late.  Also, my acupuncturist is now a black-belt in karate.  Ok, a little Jekyll-Hyde drama unfolding.  But I digress.  Ok, maybe I won’t digress.  Now that I think of it, what am I doing having a black-belt shove needles into my nerve endings?   I did have a particularly prickly acupuncturist session.  More thought must be given and a full review is necessary (in another entry).

Dinner followed with my “adopted” daughter and her partner.  My daughter went to law school against my better judgment and sounder opinion.  Still, she seems to love it and, watch out, she will be a formidable adversary.  Still she makes a fabulous chocolate birthday cake.  Look and weep:

On the bright side, if you are her adversary and she cleans up the courtroom floor with your argument, she might bake you a consolation confection.  Just a thought.

So, my brother came in for the weekend to see my dad.  BOB (brother of blogger) had not been in town for over a year.  He had planned to come in during the September High Holy Days, but contracted swine flu.  So, we gave him a pass on that trip, without asking for the lab results (if you’re family, we don’t ask for proof of illness).

I was not looking forward to re-ordering my birthday weekend, but in the end it was fabulous.

BOB came solo — without wife and kids.  While we missed the full family complement, I think he was able to relax more.  BOB was dream uncle for my son.  They played ball and watched sun bathers (my son’s idea) [see prior blog about his MoMA visit] and just did that male bonding thing that is not always so possible if you have two moms.

We gathered the extended family who lives in Manhattan for dinner.  True to form, HOSOB (husband of sister of blogger) and one of our dear cousins got into a food eating contest.  At one point, one of our younger cousins took away the plates and forks but still there was salmon left uneaten.  Not wanting to dirty another fork (cleaning that fork expands our carbon footprint), I told HOSOB to use the serving implement.  Others thought I was joking.  HOSOB knew I was serious and, such a sweet and wonderful guy, he listens to me even though I am not his wife, SOB (sister of blogger):

Of course, I had to take a picture for the family archives.

I am not so sure what BOB thinks of the odd antics of the evening.  I would like to think that it was just like riding a bike — that he felt at home with the volume and the rhythm of an evening with the ganza mishpocheh (the extended family).

My birthday wish?  To have my brother, my sister-in-law and their boys laughing around my dinner table at Sunday night dinners (with pictures), so that, years from now, we can say, “remember when we used to have dinner together on Sunday nights?”

Ok, maybe it’ll be fifteen years from now, when my nephews (by then, young men) move to NY and drag their parents, kicking and screaming, in tow.  (A new agenda item at our weekly family meetings.)  Wishes take time, I know.

But it was so great to be together again, if only for 36 hours.  Mom z”l was happy.

And because up until that moment the evening lacked a (bloggable) weird twist, SOB handed me a copy of her Last Will and Testament, so I would have it for safe-keeping.  So, I signed up for the Hemlock Society because it seemed a natural progression.

We ARE weird.

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My Gynecologist, Dr. Jew

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No joke.  My doctor’s last name is Jew.

If only his first initial were A., it would be “A. Jew, M.D.”  That would be the culmination of two generations of Jewish humor.

Except that Dr. Jew is Asian.

Actually, that makes it a satirical culmination of two generations of Jewish humor.

The whole point of the visit was to talk about hormone replacement therapy.  I am not loving some of the effects of aging and since, in this day and age where we think we can cherry-pick out the good from the bad and have it all, I think why not ask?   And besides I read about it in the New York Times Magazine.  The article says it is safer now.  Ahhhh, the Times.  The word from on High.  I know, I know, I know.  Think Valerie Plame scandal.  Think slanted reporting in the run-up to the Iraq War.  Ok, so the Times is almost as reliable as a comic book.

Dr. Jew was so very gentle and courteous when he suggested to me that doctors tend not to base their medical judgments on New York Times Magazine articles.  They like to rely on clinical tests and multi-year studies, like the kind you find in the New England Journal of Medicine.  “That rag mag?” I thought, but did not say aloud.

Look, I get my news from the Daily Show with Jon Stewart.  So, it isn’t a stretch for me to get my medical information from comic books.  Thank G-d I am not a doctor.

And Dr. Jew?  He is a good (Jew) doctor.

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Synagogue Retreat at the Norman Bates Motel

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Ok, this is a long, random recounting, so bear with me.

My sister thinks that her trip on a Greyhound bus to a casino — where, no joke, a medical conference and training were being held — brought her very close to the common denominator of humanity. She emailed me that when she got to the bus gate at Port Authority, the woman in front of her on line just started talking to her.  The woman was traveling back from Florida to Providence. She had to go to Florida to get her mother’s ashes, which were in the shopping bag that she showed to my sister in case she wanted to see. (I wish my sister knew how to use the camera feature on her cell phone. A picture would have really made the moment.)  The woman had spent 3 days on a bus and needed to smoke a cigarette, had trouble in her childhood but has now straightened out, etc.

Dear SOB (sister of blogger), welcome to my world.  It is good that you experience your birthright — i.e., Mom’s magnetism for the strange, creepy and absurd.

Well, I am at a synagogue retreat. It was a rustic experience. Lots of rules — you need to observe the Sabbath and subscribe to the Jewish dietary restrictions — not on the quantity but on the depth to which the culinary arts must sink in order to conform to Kosher laws. Alcohol is Kosher, for which many people gave thanks to G-d. Also, no coffee Saturday morning because it is the Sabbath and one cannot use electricity or fire. Really? Really? Does anyone want really want to deal with me de-caffeinated? Also tonight someone by accident started making coffee before the end of the Sabbath.  Before we could descend on the heavenly libation, the moshkiach (the Kosher police) told the kitchen workers that they had to dump out the coffee. Wastefulness CAN’T be kosher.

There are many blessings that are new to me. The place has helpful plaques to assist in mastering them. I took a picture of the blessing after one eliminates in the bathroom, thanking G-d for the creation of certain cavities in the body. Really? My orthodox grandmother said this prayer? Even when she had indigestion? This must be an invention of those “too cool for shul” types. I am not kidding. Look at the picture.

Ever trying to make lemonade out of lemons, I have decided that we would learn this prayer and recite it every time our father discusses his irregularity.  Maybe we could teach it to him.  Clearly, I am going on the slow boat the Hell.

The place was kind of like that.  As you enter, there is a sign saying, “We are blessed by your presence”.  Ok, someone should be holding judgment until we leave.  There should even be a sign flashed for a specific few (like me), “We are blessed by your leaving.”

“Blessed by your presence”?  Trying to create holy, kumbaya, religious space and energy at crash-landing impact, after braving hellish Friday night traffic.  I thought to sing, “someone’s kumbaya-ing my Lord,” but I didn’t want to say kumbaya to that.  This is getting to crazy, with the aggressive, reverse Kumbaya on the Sabbath.  Slow boat.  Nah, I am taking the express train to Hell.

As you may have surmised, we couldn’t do much documentation on the Sabbath because that required use of electricity or batteries, so I had to take pictures in secret and I couldn’t blog.  Now that was harsh.  As my own little rage against the machine, I turned on my iPod just BEFORE I left the premises to go on my run.  Ah, the little subversities. But, as usual I digress.

Friday night, after blessing the group with our presence (or so the sign said), we proceeded to our promised charming two bedroom cabin.  The advertising was so wrong it should be a felony.  So one civil crime justifies a religious crime — desecration of the Sabbath — to take these pictures:

Is this a charming two-bedroom cabin? Type that into wikipedia and I bet that you won’t see a picture of this.  Really??  This is a three-bed cabin.  Ooops, there must have been a mistake.  No?  No mistake, this is the very finest that the camp has to offer?  In the county in Connecticut with the highest per capita income?  Really?  Really?  I am in a mood most foul and approach the rabbis about the relative merits of, say, a Ritz Carlton.  Not so my friends can get business, but it is a base level that to which we should become accustomed.

But at least the turn-down service left conflict-free chocolate on the beds:

But the real kicker is that in the light of day on Saturday, I realized that I had parked my rented super-huge, gas-guzzling monstrosity here:

Ok, I am a convert:  There, but for the Grace of G-d, go I.

~ the Blogger

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A Typical Family Dinner

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As we do almost every Sunday, the extended family — dispersed far and wide on the Island of Manhattan — gather for dinner prepared by POB (partner of blogger).  Three generations of the family are represented and range in age from 7 to 89 years-old.

My 26 year-old cousin who is a runner was talking about her gastro-intestinal problems, which she believes somehow is a sign from her father, z”l, who was a gastroenterologist (sp?).  Ok, as much as our family is fixated on our intestinal fortitude, I am skeptical that her father, my dear cousin, would cause these kind of issues from Heaven so that she could remember him.  I suggested it might be a parasite from living for 5 years in China.  Food for thought, so to speak.

All my father had to hear was that someone was having issues with diarrhea and he started a sidebar with my sister the doctor about his own issues.  Here is where there needs to be a firewall between parents and children.  Ok, even if there were such a firewall, we would have drilled a tunnel under that it a looooong time ago.  How did I know the topic of this sidebar, you ask?  The look on my sister’s face told me everything I needed to know.  Since my sister doesn’t drink, I needed to give my father more wine to stop the conversation.

All this is going on while I watch my 23 year-old cousin fade in and out.  He came over early to toss a football with my son, and just as we were getting into the really gross intestinal details (over hors d’oeuvres, mind you), he was finally feeling the hangover from the night before — as in, it took him more than 14 hours after his last drink to process all of the alcohol in his system.  I am not naming names, but he is a former hockey player and maybe some of my family will recognize the descriptions so far and call him out on that.  But I am not saying anything.  Nope.  Lips are sealed.

Then a cousin of my generation put together a beautiful, stirring composition, “At My Daughter’s Wedding,” for my sister and brother in law in a CD with the cover featuring a photo at their wedding with my mother’s picture in the foreground and my sister and brother in law in the background.  My sister and I fought hard to hold the tears back.  We talked today and we were both choked up that my cousin captured the joy of the event and the sadness that our mother was not alive for the wedding, all in the beauty of his music. It was an extraordinary moment.  We also played a song he wrote about our family history so the young ones could be further indoctrinated into the cult of our family.  I really cannot say enough about my cousin’s music — it hit a chord in my sister and me that is too deep for words and I hope he understands the depth of his gift from the looks in our eyes.

Of course, this same cousin gave me cassette tapes about dealing with loss when my mother died and I had forgotten about them for over seven year until POB reminded me about a week ago.  Then, my head and heart exploded when I realized I had the tapes when his mother died.  Oy.  Oy.  Just when he needed them.  Oy. Oy.  I returned them to him last night.  A little late.  Oy. Oy.

Then, of course, my cousin and brother in law had to have an eating contest, just like two brothers, which warmed our hearts.  POB made a traditional roasted chicken and vegetables using a Kosher chicken for our young cousin and an Indian chicken dish with basmati rice and some other vegetables for those of us more culinarily assimilated.  Of course, the “boys” kept asking our kosher cousin if she had had enough so they could consume the rest.  In other words, eat fast or don’t eat at all.  It’s a tough world out there and our house is sometimes a little like boot camp.

Of course, one never knows what will happen next at a family function.  My sister and brother in law brought over their wills to be witnessed.  My sister wanted to do this quietly, so of course I had to announce what we needed to do to all assembled.  So after dessert, we assembled the necessary witnesses and signed as appropriate.  The lawyers at the table asked if they were each of sound mind and then we decided that no one in our family could really pass that test.  We respectfully withdrew the questions and proceeded with the signing ceremony.

From the mundane (diahrrea) to the emotional (music for my mother z”l) to the eternal (the wills).  No wonder these dinners are exhausting.  And wonderful.

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