Category Archives: family

Aleichem Sholom

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A point of clarification on my last blog entry about SOB (sister of blogger) and DOB (dad of blogger) and the documentary they saw on Sholom Aleichem:

Sholom Aleichem was the great Yiddish writer/playwright’s nom de plume.  It is a Yiddish variant of the Hebrew “shalom aleichem,” meaning “peace be with you”.  The correct response, is “aleichem shalom.”

Shalom Aleichem is also a song for the Sabbath (check out this video): http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=72wDlNi3fJs

(Translation: Peace unto you, ministering angels, messengers of the Most High, of the supreme King of kings, the Holy One, blessed be He.  May your coming be in peace angels of peace, messengers of the Most High, of the supreme King of kings, the Holy one, blessed be He. Bless me with peace, angels of peace, messengers of the Most High, of the supreme King of kings, the Holy one, blessed be He.  May your departure be in peace, angels of peace, messengers of the Most High, of the supreme King of kings, the Holy one, blessed be He.)

It is relevant, in some miniscule way, to this blog entry.

Today, SOB took TLP (our son, the little prince) to have lunch with DOB and then see the movie, “Cars2.”  TLP was telling SOB and DOB about his favorite parts of camp and he mentioned that Shabbat services was a Friday high point.  Now, there is a totally irreligious reason for this:  TLP gets an extra snack of grape juice and challah.  SCORE!!!! 

Unfortunately, even though no one even mentioned Sholom Aleichem for almost 7 full days, DOB immediately launched into his off-key rendition of “Shalom Aleichem” in full voice for the, er, um, benefit (?) of all within earshot — other patrons of the diner and assorted vermin hiding to get away from the cacophony.

So, two irreconcilable desires derive from this episode:  One, we all agree never to mention anything about Shabbat ever again in DOB’s presence, even the innocent references made by TLP.  The other, is to see how quickly we can trigger the song in DOB at any time and all the time.  The first option would save our sanity but the second option has a slightly mischievous appeal even though it would be tantamount to mutual assured destruction.

SOB and I are dutiful and loving daughters.  Which do you think we chose?  The latter of course.  And, to make it even crazier, we bet on it.  With each other, we only bet in the millions of dollars so we are always going for broke.  It seems appropriate since we are betting on our sanity and that of DOB.

DOB is coming for dinner tomorrow night.  SOB has to work, so I have the advantage.  I might meet him downstairs so that I trigger it even before he crosses the threshold. I am the evil younger sibling.

But, SOB needn’t worry about transferring assets so quickly.  There will always be new bets, even more cynical and macabre bets, long before the Final Accounting is due.  (And, as I understand, Hell doesn’t take cash or credit cards.)

But until then, hum with me:  ♫ Sha-lom a-lei-chem, mal-a-chei ha-sha-reit, mal-a-chei el-yon, mi-me-lech ma-l’chei ha-m’la-chim, ha-ka-dosh ba-ruch hu. . . . ♫

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Another Family Dinner

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It is always so wonderful when family shares a meal.  The family gathers at 6pm for wine and hors-d’oeuvres (chaseri, or pig food, in Yiddish).  POB (partner of blogger) made a great lentil dish, roasted tomato soup accompanied by green salad and bread, all served cold for a great summer time meal.

Dad, of course, came early.  Not just a little early.  4pm.  A reminder to discuss whether the “Early-Bird Special” was an invention or just putting a name to a syndrome of old age.  But I digress.

Yesterday, Dad and SOB (sister of blogger) saw the movie about Sholom Aleichem, the great Yiddish writer.  So, Dad was waxing philosophic about his mamer loshen (mother tongue), repeating much of the Reform Jewish rationalism for stamping out a “ghetto language”.

My generation thinks very differently about Yiddish. We wish we knew it.  Many of us wish we could have spoken to our grandparents in Yiddish.  We could have had more than broken, basic conversations with them.  We could have learned about our history in one of the most expressive languages of our day.

TLP (our son, the little prince) was excited to learn how to respond to Dad, when he said “vus machster?” [what’s doing?]  TLP said, “Ich ikh bin leyenung” [I’m reading].   It was a great moment.

Still, Dad has to be at peace with the choices he and Mom made and I need to let him have that peace. But it was a grueling 1:45 hours until SOB and HOSOB (husband of SOB) showed up (they know that Dad comes early).  Dad continued to talk about Yiddish and Sholom Aleichem and then started singing “Sholom Aleichem”.  SOB shut that down in record time.  She came over to tell me that he kept singing that in full voice at lunch after seeing the movie.  Somethings should stay in synagogue.  That hallel is one of them.

By the time we exhausted ourselves and the topic, Cousin Gentle and CB (Cousin Birder) arrived.  The full complement.

As always, the conversation ranged in topics and sentiments.  Dad worried that we had chocolate-covered peanuts on the table — AS IF we would have anything on the table to which anyone is allergic, much less have them in the house if OUR SON, TLP, were allergic.  (Dad, do you know me?)  But I let that roll off me.  I counted backwards from ten multiple times.  We started talking about politics, always good for the heart rate.  Cousin Gentle worried that John Boehner was having a deleterious effect on my health.   Actually, I was still gobsmacked that my father would think I would put poison on my table.  Cousin Gentle tried to share some of his Buddhist enlightenment.  I tried to be receptive, all the while repeating, “Dad is almost 91 years old.  At least he still worries about other people, even if his comments suggest that his daughter could be the headline story of New York Post edition.”

Unfortunately, Cousin Gentle thought he might have offended me.  He called after dinner to make sure all was ok.  It seemed time to reiterate the rules of Sunday night dinner:

Premise:

It is so wonderful when family gathers.

Sacred Rules:

  1. You can say anything at our table if said with a good heart.
  2. No holds barred.
  3. Everyone has to be able to kiss and say I love you at the end of the night.

Corollaries and Commentary:

  • You can be:
    •  critical (did HOSOB really say something critical about marriage when he married SOB?),
    • questioning (to wit, Dad’s thinking we would put peanuts on the table if someone were allergic),
    • fun-loving (CB’s teasing TLP), and/or
    • torturing (ok, that’s all me)

with impunity.

  • If you do any three out of four in the same sentence, we’ll give you a door-prize.

To review:

Come with your love, your opinions (except Dad) and your insights. Oh, and your appetite.

 

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Sunday Morning in the City

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I am drinking coffee, sitting on the window seat in my kitchen, looking out our neighbor’s backyard trees and listening to someone practicing the flute.  The flutist is very good and the music is soothing.  When the flutist takes a break, the birds call to each other.  A little bit of peace and tranquility in a bustling city.  POB (partner of blogger) is showering after the gym and TLP (our son, the little prince) is playing in his room after cuddling and rough-housing with me.

TLP is tired from yesterday’s adventure.  Cousin Gentle took him to a train museum in Connecticut.  They are both fascinated by trains (as only boys — young and old — can be) and they rode on an old coach, played inside an antique caboose, went round the turntable on an antique train car.  These were some of the many awesome things at the museum for train aficionados.  They had quite an adventure coming back — a missed bus, and hitchhiking (ok with the nice lady from the museum) to another town to get a different connection to another train that would bring them home.

I am glad that I didn’t know about the “lift from the kind lady from the museum” until after they were safely on the train bound for New York City.  Of course, I was mildly hysterical just having the knowledge that it happened.  Who am I kidding?  I was ready to send a helicopter and airlift them to safety.  POB talked me off the ledge.  All I know is that I kissed TLP at 10:30am and didn’t kiss him again until 8:00pm.  And at some point during that time, he was depending on the kindness of strangers.  (And we all know how that strategy worked out for Blanche DuBois (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Blanche_DuBois).)

TLP and Cousin Gentle arrived and we fed them.  They (and we) relaxed, luxuriating in the safety of their being home and having the freedom to give into the fatigue of a long, exciting, stressful and successful trip.

And, having my family back in one piece, under the same roof, makes the tranquility of this morning even more glorious.

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Not Least Enough

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I came up with a family crest, based on how lazy SOB (sister of blogger) and I are (http://40andoverblog.com/?p=3772).

You would think that it would satisfy her.  Nope.  “Nos operor minimus nos can operor” is too long.  Lop off the first “nos operor,” SOB says.  So now it translates to: ” [add apostrophe] least we can do”.  The moral equivalent of typing “K” when you mean “okay”.

I guess it IS in keeping with how we run our lives.  And it is the least I can do to make SOB happy.  And we all know what we do:  THE LEAST WE CAN DO.

[Sigh]

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nos operor minimus nos can operor

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We are grandchildren of immigrants to this country.  We derive from the huddled masses, whose very existences, let alone birth dates, were never recorded in official records.  We have no family crest.  No motto of our lineage.

In our second generation of natural born Americans, we have thrown around mottoes that might define our family’s communal sensibilities.  For a while, we imagined a family crest that would match our intrusiveness, lovable brusqueness that is meant to show love.  SOB (sister of blogger) and I imagined with a white picket fence and an “X” through it.  It would signify, “no boundaries”.

But it is hard to figure out how all that fits on a pinkie ring, which is apparently where the family crest goes, if you are a family crest kind of family.

As time goes by, I have determined that we are not so much intrusive (yet lovable) as we are lazy.  We give new meaning to the usual response to the sentiment, “you shouldn’t have!!”  In fact, we DO do the least we can do.

When SOB brings dessert to top off a three-course Sunday night dinner at our house, she says, “it’s the least we could do.”  And I respond, “yes, yes, it is.”  She is gratified that she exceeded the low bar we set for each other.  And since she has exceeded the bar, she can do a victory lap around the apartment and bend her head to receive her Olympic medal.

Our new motto: nos operor minimus nos can operor

We do the least we can do.

I will come up with some crest designs in future blogs.

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July 1

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July 1.  Day of doom.  Why, you ask?

Because, all over the country, newly-minted graduates from medical schools are in hospitals and each is called “doctor”.  Enough said.

SOB (sister of blogger) is an attending physician at a hospital and the head of the medical intensive care unit.  Each year I offer to have a talk with anyone she deems a “007” (licensed to kill) about other potential career paths.  It is my annual charitable event; I think of it as saving lives.  Every year, she demurs.  No one is quite the Austin Powers version of James Bond.

But the offer still stands.

When TLP (our son, the little prince) was born, it was July 11.  The interns were 10 days old.  POB (partner of blogger) had to have an emergency Caesarian.  In order to get to the baby in a Caesarian procedure, a lot of organs need to be taken out of the way.  So when TLP was born and I heard the OB-GYN say to the intern, “where would you put the uterus?”  I offered, “back where it belongs!!!!”

If it is July, don’t ask for just any doctor.  Ask for a REAL doctor.

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POB

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I love POB (partner of blogger).  She is the better half of my soul.  She is extraordinary.

She is also “at liberty” these days, since losing her job in a corporate restructuring.  To my mind, she can rest on her laurels and eat bon-bons for the rest of her life. I want her to be happy.  But recently, I think she needs to have a job for her sanity and well, frankly, for mine.

A few weeks ago, I learned from POB all about the scam of recycling plastic bottles.  The bottles are shipped to China (add to carbon footprint) where the process of recycling those bottles causes noxious gases to be released into the atmosphere (EPA would not allow such recycling in our country) and then the recycled product is shipped back to us (add to carbon footprint). All this, over dinner, after a long day trying to woo clients and bring in business.

Last night, we were at dinner at a restaurant with friends and POB had questions about the fish special.  Was it farmed? Was it certified as “happy fish” before it was fooled by bait and impaled on a hook?  Where was it fished? (as in, was it fished in a place that is overfished?)  I had an extra glass of wine that had a huge carbon footprint.  I felt bad but the wine felt good.

But it was really the other week that I decided that POB needs a job, ANY job, with or without pay.  POB announced over a gluten-free, nut-free and (dare I say) taste-free dinner that we should get one of those apartment-size composting kits so that we can create fertilizer and then drop it off at compost-receiving stations in Central Park.  That way, the parks will be greener and we will be, too.  Ok, ok, ok, ok, at age 47, I am composting nicely, thank you.  I will disintegrate enough just in time for the worms, etc. to break down the rest of my cells at my death.  POB is not mollified by the knowledge that I am in slow-burn compost mode.

What, am I not compost enough for POB????  At long last, has it come to this?

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My son’s 9th birthday party

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It is so hard to imagine that TLP (the little prince), is turning 9 years-old.  Because his birthday is in the summer, we have his party before the end of the school year.  So, today, we had a bowling party for him and invited his friends and family.  I think back to the days when he couldn’t navigate a mainstream class or party.   And then I see him connecting with his friends today.  Night and day.

The other night, POB (partner of blogger) took him to a pre-camp orientation meeting.  In previous years, these were unmitigated disasters.  Yet, this year, TLP was engaged, engaging and actually enjoyed the event.  POB told him how proud she was of how he navigated that social situation.  He replied, “Mommy, I have evolved.”

Evolved, he has.  In so many ways.  Today, my young son is a gracious host, laughing and enjoying time with this friends and happy to see assorted cousins, aunts and grandfathers who all wore ear plugs to brave the event.  Night and day.

Yesterday, at the end-of-Hebrew-school picnic, another mother came up to me to tell me what TLP had said about what he learned at religious school this year.  (Generally, we like to give TLP space and not sit in on classes, so it is good to get information from the even more neurotic parents.)  TLP said, “I learned about the meaning of social justice and I am really happy that my moms can have more than a ceremony — we can all get married.”  (Yes, TLP refers to our 2012 nuptials as our wedding.) Night and day.

Back to today and the party.  The kids are screaming at a decibel level heretofore unknown in humans.  They are wild, obstreperous, very physical and sometimes even rude.  In short, they are normal 9 year-olds.  It is a two-hour party that seems to last for days.  POB and I need a nap when we get home.

So, as Gay Pride floats down Fifth Avenue, I celebrate all that I already have: an exhausting 9 year-old, a birthday party with his friends, an extended family who come to share these milestones and for Sunday night dinner, life-long friends, and my partner in life, POB.

Thank you, Governor Cuomo, because you made sure that, with your signature, the law recognizes the universality of our aspirations and the ingredients of our happiness. Night and day.

 

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Pulling Up

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I do pull-ups at the gym.  Apparently unlike other women.  The beefy, muscled boys love to give me pointers.

One trainer refers to the pull-up bar as a “girl”.  So when he sees me, he asks, “Did you visit your girl?” and “Did you do right by your girl?”

In what can only be described as an out-of-body experience, I respond, “Hey, I am always respectful to the girl.”  What middle-aged, white, middle class, Jewish woman talks like this? (Apparently, I do.)

“All right.  That’s the answer I wanna hear,” he says.

Ok, gym talk is nuts.  And, even nutsier? That I am talking the talk.   Imagine that.  Actually, DON’T.  It is too ugly.

My sister, weighing in at approximately 98 pounds soaking wet, comes over after doing a non-work-out on the elliptical machine.  She didn’t even break a sweat.  “It was the least I could do,” she says.  No lie. It is hard to imagine 30 minutes on a cardio machine and not one bead of sweat.  But my sister has always been exceptional.

She wants to try a pull-up.  I offer to give her an assist.  “I can do this,” she says as she waves me off and grabs the bar.  And then dangles helplessly like a fish caught on bait.  “I had no idea that this was hard!!”  This is clearly not the least she could do.  So, she kisses me and goes to the locker room for a shower even though not even a little sweat was shed.

But don’t mess with my sister.  She’ll drop you in 5 seconds.  She may not have abs of steel but she has a force of will that would humble professional boxers.

 

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