Category Archives: family

iFamily

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For my 40th birthday (just about 7 years ago), POB (partner of blogger) gave me an iPod.  There is new, souped of version of this dinosaur called “iPod Classic”.  Just like those “classic” Chryslers with all the conveniences of modern technology but with the fins and the chrome edges.  It was amazing in its time and, just seven years later, its limitations are quaint — in that way that a lop-sided homemade cake is really so, so, so, “homey”.

Then, it wore out  as iThings are designed to do after 360 charges. So, it stays planted in its iPlayer for music when we are in the house.

Then, we got something for the gym.

And this doesn’t really hold a charge anymore.  And so I get iRate at the gym when the battery idies on me and all I have to watch is the 24-hour-news-recycle to pass the tortuous 30 minutes on a constant-sweat machine of choice that day.

Ok, so then we got one that had more “juice” for the family.  But we didn’t know about the iDeath that happens after 360 charges (don’t leave an iPod in a charger or re-charge willy-nilly).  So this iDevice splits its time between two places: the kitchen, and, after hours, in SOPOBAB’s (son of POB and blogger’s) room so he can listen to audio books and then go to sleep to the music of Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong (yes, SOPOBAB is an old soul).  This requires TWO iBose systems for its two iHomes.

Ok, that was not enough, so we got two, TWO, iTouches.  Two iTouches. SOPOBAB has dinosaur, bird, football, baseball and hockey apps so he can play, too. (Our child cannot conceive of a world with typewriters, dial-up connections, Basic 8 computer languages.  Thank G-d, he loves real, honest-to-goodness books.)

The batteries are draining too quickly.  So we are probably going to get another one.  Oy.

Then we got an iMac.  [picture not included because of iMalfunction] [imagine iPicture here].

THEN, a MacBook Pro.

Now, an iPhone.  Not for me.  For POB.  Cool and groovy.

But I am a little iParanoid that our dependence on Steve Jobs is getting addictive.  But I really hate PCs since Microsoft Vista came out and ground our PC to a halt even for simple tasks, like say, logging on.

There was a time when there was no “I” in “team” (but there IS an I in family, which stinks for the metaphor).  Apple will get rid of that problem by creating the iTeam (who knows if that is true, but one has to believe that something like that has to come out in order to continue the mind control and advance the global domination).

In life, you pick your battles.  Steve Jobs, you win. iLove you and so does this iFamily.

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All quiet on the Upper West Side

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Our son is sick and so POB (partner of blogger) and I have split the task of caring for him so we can have at least a half-day at work.

Sometimes, the delicate balance maintained by two working parents is thrown off and you have to deal.  I was able to be on conference calls and do some work, all the while hugging and kissing my child and saying things my mother would say, “My poor tsatskela, I am so sorry you are sick.  If I could have it for you, I would!”

Our son wanted to watch a nature video on the Grand Canyon.  So, I am watching as a tarantula hawk wasp (as in insect) paralyzes a tarantula (as in huge, hairy and gross) and drags it off so the wasp’s larvae can feed on the tarantula.  Something small dragging something comparatively elephantine is quite extraordinary.  It is also quite disgusting.  But it is better than a SpongeBob SquarePants marathon.  I am grateful for life’s small graces.

Now, the nature show has moved to the effect of human intervention on the natural course of the Grand Canyon on humpback suckerfish and chuckwallises (sp?).  I keep returning to reading proposed model changes to credit agreements made necessary by the lessons (??) learned in the economic downturn.

Suckerfish and chuckwallises are more interesting.  Now, that is a statement.

We are now looking at the ecosystems of the Everglades.  Two many reptiles and I keep thinking of Horatio Caine and CSI: Miami.  This, I can tune out.  Work wins this round.

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Holiday Photos

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Most every other family can get it together to take a photo, get prints done, put in envelopes, address the envelopes and mail them.  We can’t. 

In fact, POB (partner of blogger) would rather do laundry and I would rather destroy the house under the guise of “home improvements” than undertake this gargantuan task.  (As an aside, we have had to contract repairman to correct my home improvement projects, but I digress. . . )

So . . .  Not happening until our son is of an age where he can do all of that.

But we love getting the holiday pictures from our friends and family.  (Note to friends: we love seeing your kids, but we also want to see you in the picture as well.)

SOPOBAB (son of POB and blogger) especially likes the pictures of the kids he knows.  Even he says stuff like, “wow, they’ve grown!!”  There is one family with an adorable little girl and two younger twin boys (you know who you are) whose card was particularly of interest to SOPOBAB.  (I think he likes the willfulness in the girl.)  But he is betrothed to another (this, he decided at the tender age of 7, so his interest in the willful one is merely big-brotherly.)

He also likes to see pictures of my college friends’ families.  A group of us female friends have remained tight-knit (the “Soeurs”).  SOPOBAB asked POB, “when are the Soeur kids getting together?” 

He also asked POB, “[Blogger] is a Soeur, and I am a Soeur kid, then what are you?”  POB responded, somewhat sheepishly, “I am a Soeur Consort.”  Since not everyone has a spouse and partners may change from time to time, it seemed like a suitable name — heck, Queen Elizabeth’s husband is called “The Queen Consort” (I think). Unfortunately, it sounds a little tawdry.  Maybe we will all get married by the time he is old enough to think the name is ooky and then “Soeur Consorts” will be “Soeur Spouses”.

But our boy is used to eccentricity.

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Bringing in the Joni [Mitchell]

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It is that time of year again, when the days get darker and the weather colder.  And the despair.  Same despair as every year since 2002 when Mom started down that slippery slope to the end of her life.  The dark days, my sister and I call them.

Dear Mom:

We moved eight times ’round the seasons since you died.  We have rode those stupid, stinking, painted ponies eight times ’round the carousel of time.  And still, tears well up in both your daughters’ eyes just thinking about the fact that you are gone.

We have a lovely party for Dad’s 90th birthday.  We tried to keep the photo montage balanced so it wouldn’t be a shrine to you.  Your eldest (SOB, to my blogging friends) was strong and held me back.  We had to remember (ok, I had to remember) that we needed to be all about Dad that day, even though somehow being all about Dad means being all about you, too.

SOB tries to think that these past years allowed us to get to know Dad and allowed him to shine.  That is true. He is a wonderful, kind and generous man.  (Ok, generous in spirit, and in his gifts to his family, but on a day-to-day basis, a person needs a crowbar to open up his wallet.)  And don’t let those years of his croaking out notes on the saxophone fool you, he is a maestro when it comes to pushing our buttons in a tour de force — a veritable Liberace, but without the candelabra, crazy outfits or the ookiness.  But, he is aging more quickly these days.  And he will forever be lost without you.  As are we all to some extent.

Your grandchildren are fabulous young men.  BOB’s (brother of blogger’s) elder son asked us recently, “what do you remember most about Mamaw?”  I could see SOB’s eyes welling up.  Mine were, too.  I think we were caught off-guard by the question.  We were sitting at the dining room table — your table — and we were so awed by our nephew’s desire to know more about his grandmother.  Sometimes my son asks, “what would grandma say?” in a given situation.  I do my best imitation although I am scared that I can’t summon up your voice as well any more.

We’ve lost a fair amount of family since we lost you — Ricky, Uncle Billy, POB’s (partner of blogger’s) mom, Rudy and Yvette, among others.  Rudy and Yvette needed me and I hope I made you proud by my actions.  We have had some notable additions.  SOB now has HOSOB (husband of SOB) who is fabulous and loves the family (who could have imagined?).  He made latkes for Hanukah.   I think he thinks that there is a special “conversion by cooking” clause in Judaism.  I keep telling him he has to dunk in the dirty water in the mikvah.  He is already practicing his aliyah for SOPOBAB’s (son of POB and blogger’s) Bar Mitzvah.  You would adore him.  He makes SOB laugh and smile in a way that makes me wish you could just come back — for just a moment — and see the smile on her face and the look in her eyes and know that SOB is happy and in love.

Also Cousin Gentle has joined our nuclear family pod.  It is so good to have the New York City contingent around our table on a Sunday night, eating, laughing, reminiscing and creating new memories.  You should have seen all the boys (and I am including Dad and POB’s father) around the train set that SOPOBAB got as a present.  Some moments are priceless and you want to freeze them in time.

Maybe there is a Heaven and you are there and see everything.  I know you never believed in it (“when you’re dead, you’re dead” you often said), but I cannot accept that there is a black hole in the world where your heart and soul once were.  You cannot have dissipated into the air.

Sometimes, your death gives me strength.  If I could get through that, I could get through almost anything that happens in a given day.  The economy has been hard these past years and I worry sometimes (ok, most of the time), but your life and death have given me a perspective that keeps me sane (mostly sane).

One last thing I wish you could help me navigate.  Matzah balls are supposed to sink; POB’s float (whoever heard of such a thing).  I know she cooks the Passover meal and it is her mother’s recipe and Passover is all about her mother (z”l) — as it should be, but when do you think I can start negotiating for the sinkers again?

I love you, Mom.

~  Blogger

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Happiness is . . . predictability

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I was too sick to go to our family 11th night of Hannukah party but I felt like a I was there (http://40andoverblog.com/?p=3114) because, as predicted, my dad did try out his Japanese, my son turned all the bird-nerders on to Chirp, an iTouch app, the latkes were authentic, and Cousin Gentle spent the whole evening talking up the eligible single woman in the room (and of course we have pictures and depending on the number of time she appears in future pictures, we will need to footnote the length and quality of her relationship to the overall clan).

Life is good even though I am still sick as a dog.

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Being sick

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It is Saturday, and I am really sick and in bed.  This time what-ever-ails-me is in my chest, my throat and my ears.

At one point, I thought I was febrile and delusional because I kept thinking there were men on scaffolds outside one window of my bedroom and large pieces of rock being hoisted outside another window.  In fact, POB (partner of blogger) confirmed that I may be crazy but I am not delusional (dontcha love her?) because indeed all of this is happening while I need quiet to rest and repair.  (I also note that those hoisting the large rocks to our building’s roof don’t seem to care about the damage if any to the sides of the building because those slabs nearly knocked out our air conditioning unit.)

POB and SOPOBAB (son of POB and blogger) have gone to Hebrew School and then a party of one of SOPOBAB’s classmates. I am too sick to join them (and I really don’t want to share my germs).  Assuming I feel ok and the antibiotics kick in, we are all supposed to meet at SOB (sister of blogger) and HOSOB’s (husband of SOB’s) home for the 11 day of Hannukah.  (Ok, we could not get it together earlier to have a family Hannukah party during Hannukah.)  So, a little Festivus, a little Hannukah, a little food.

What could be bad?  Well I am glad you asked.

First, HOSOB is making the latkes.  That would be lovely, except that he doesn’t really cook.  Also, since he is not Jewish, he wants it to be really authentic, which means all the advances we have made in making latkes less artery-occluding are out the window.  This old-style, with schmaltz.  My mouth is watering, but my heart valves are scared.

Second, HOSOB is inviting some of his friends.  That’s fine, we love other bird nerds.  Especially, SOPOBAB, who is a Bird Nerd, Jr.  Except one of the guests is Japanese, which will mean my father will talk about his living in Japan during the Korean War (almost 60 years ago) and proceed to say, “Hai!! Muskudeska?!!”  He doesn’t know what he is saying and we don’t know what he is saying.  And one can mangle a language so it comes out meaning something offensive.  Also, highlighting old wars just can’t be good cocktail conversation.  Assuming HOSOB’s friend is not offended, and responds, Dad wouldn’t understand.

Third, Cousin Gentle who is single, will be there.  HOSOB has invited someone who is single and there may be a shitach (a “match”).  The problem for me, as keeper of the family archives, is that there will be pictures taken, additions to the archives and this lovely woman will need more of a footnote than iPhoto allows when things take a southerly direction (we have had this issue come up with other of Cousin Gentle’s girlfriends).

Fourth, I may be too sick to go.  And I love my family.  SOB and I need each other to brave our dad’s pushing our every button like a maestro at his instrument of choice, as a way of sister-bonding.

I’ll let you know what happens.  Now time for a nap.

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My son, the Prince

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This weekend, POB (partner of blogger), SOPOBAB (son of POB and blogger) and I went to see dear friends who live outside the City.  The wife, M., is in the travel business so she knows how to spoil people with sumptuous accommodations.  The husband, C., is the sweetest man ever and, together they are generous with their hearts, their time and their money.   These are the kind of people that should have G-d’s grace shine upon them forever and always (not that I am a religious person or anything).

They have taken an especial liking to SOPOBAB and SOPOBAB adores them — simply adores them.

M. made sure his bedroom for the weekend was filled with presents, like Christmas morning in the movies.  Our room had a gigantic bed with matching pajamas in case we forgot ours, a gift basket and bottled water.  The bathroom was the size of most Manhattan apartments. So, this was SIX star accommodations and, because we were visiting our dear friends, it was a TEN-STAR experience.

I forgot to tell our friends that SOPOBAB said after the weekend that he slept in “luxurious comfort” (he is 8 year old and where do 8 year-olds get this vocabulary).

We kept saying, “they must think you’re royalty — a REAL prince!!”  He wondered after the weekend if he should tell them that he wasn’t really royalty, after all.  But then, he figured, there might not be as many presents or endless games of hide-and-go-seek and tag.  (G-d bless C. for running all over and watching cartoons.)  So, SOPOBAB thought he would keep his commoner status quiet.  Still, he felt a little sheepish about the ruse.

Yet, during the weekend, SOPOBAB got a little toooo into the groove of “ask and ye shall receive” when he asked that his burger be pan-fried, like in diners.  C. was braving the frigid temperatures to grill a delicious carnivorous fare.  (I was personally horrified, first, that my son would be so bold as to make that request and, second, that he would have a palate that desired pan-fried burgers, but I digress.)  I was a little concerned that C. might accede to his wishes and then we would have to send our son to boot camp to bring him back down to real life.

But G-d not only gave them wonderful hearts and souls, but “seychel” (Yiddish for “smarts” and the “ch” is a guttural German-like sound).  C. brought a pan outside and deposited the grilled hamburgers into it and then brought them into the dining room for our son.  SOPOBAB pronounced them the most delicious burgers he had ever eaten.  I had the biggest smile on my face.

A fabulous weekend getaway.  Except that our son now asks, “what if I am a real prince, only kidnapped by you like in a fairy tale?”  I think, “sweetie, most times, only us, your real mothers could love you,” but I keep that thought inside.  I merely said, “we treat you like a prince, so does it matter?”  “But, M. and C. treat me better!!”

I know he knows that that is all because they are not his parents and they can (and do) spoil him.  But, oy.  Boot camp here we come.

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My sister-in-law, the keeper of the flame

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SILOB (sister-in-law of blogger) and I don’t have much in common.  I don’t know that much about her, mostly because BOB (brother of blogger) has banned potentially touchy topics, such as sex, drugs, rock ‘n roll, religion, politics and the first-coming-versus-second-coming discussion that can be VERY tricky among Jews and Christians.  So, there isn’t much of interest to talk about, except our kids (my nephews are FABULOUS in case anyone wants to know).  I may have failed to mention that I curse like a sailor which may or may not be offensive to her.  BOB insulates her so well from us that we assume that she really doesn’t like the New York family.

Except for my mother.  When my mother died, SILOB said simply and beautifully that she was the daughter-in-law that my mother never expected (not Jewish, GOP, Texan) and my mother nevertheless threw her arms around her and made her welcome.  POB (partner of blogger) could relate; my mother — having had two girls and one boy — never expected to have TWO daughters-in-law.

Families are complicated.  Love isn’t as complicated.  What is complicated is what you do about the things you don’t like — or don’t know — about the people you love.   My mother seemed to have bridged the divides with her daughters-in-law well before her death.  So much so, that SILOB walked 60 miles in San Diego for the Susan G. Komen organization in my mother’s memory.

So, EIGHT years after my — OUR — mother’s death, SILOB keeps the dream of a cure for breast cancer alive.  She literally walked the walk.  She keeps my mother’s memory alive in a positive way (SOB (sister of blogger) and I try to, but sometimes, we just wallow in self-pity.)

It is a testament to SILOB and my mother and their relationship that eight years on, she fights breast cancer “for Elsie” [our mom].

I haven’t tried very hard to get to know SILOB these past 13 years.  I have allowed every inadvertent or intentional rebuff (mostly from BOB) be an excuse not to try harder.  But there is something very basic we share — the memories of Mom.   And that is one of the strongest ties I have to most people in my life.

To SILOB, the keeper of the flame and the fight for a breast cancer-free world.

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Veterans Day

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Yesterday was Veteran’s Day.

I was thinking a lot about war and life yesterday.  When I became a mother and god-mother, I understood that if my son (or god-daughters) went to war, I would have to go as well, because anything that is worth my child’s life, is worth my life.  (And the corollary: if you mess with my children, you mess with me.)  Of course, I think it would be hard to take your mom into battle.  But if you know me, you know that the enemy should be really, really, scared.

So, I am grateful to the young men and women who routinely put their lives at risk for the high stakes political chess that our world leaders play with way too much glee and ooky blood lust.

And I am grateful to the veterans of prior wars for their sacrifices.  It is hard to imagine old men and women in their prime, as spies (www.dailymail.co.uk/…/Tragedy-WWII-spy-Eileen-Nearne-escaped-Gestapo-died-alone.html) and soldiers and nurses on the front.  They look so old and enfeebled now.

Today, as I was leaving my office, I saw two old men in wheel chairs.  Using “old” is somewhat euphemistic.  “Ancient” is more appropriate.  Incapacitated and dependent.  When I see random ancient people on the street (as opposed to family), I cannot think of them as once young and vibrant.  I just see strangers with no past and probably not much of a future.

Except the two old men in their wheelchairs with their attendants were wearing war medals and insignias of their military service.  All of a sudden, they were not inconvenient and uncomfortable reminders of my future decrepitude.  I know that when they were young, they were warriors.  Given the number of medals, they were brave warriors.   And they have stories, of war and peace, love and hate, passion and indifference.  Maybe these were good, generous, upright men.  Maybe they weren’t.  Probably, like all of us, they fell somewhere in between.

Two of my uncles were reluctant warriors in WWII.  One was captured and imprisoned.  I know his story, which is powerful (www.jewishvirtuallibrary.org/jsource/Holocaust/Shapiro.html).  It was hard to know these things about my uncle.  I know it was hard for my uncle to remember, transcend the evil, and have his story known.

It wasn’t until my other uncle, Uncle Al, died about 9 years ago that I learned he fought in the Pacific in WWII.  He never talked about it (or maybe we just didn’t see enough of him to draw him out).  My father thinks he was at Guadalcanal.  Of course, that generation never talked about the war, even when the effects of the war crippled, or at least altered, the trajectories of their post-war lives.

Truth is that I didn’t know this uncle very well.  He was the third of five sons and got short shrift by three generations of our family.  He was a quiet man with great artist skill.  I wonder if I would have interacted with him differently if, while he was alive, I knew to look at his life through the prism of the bloodshed he must have witnessed and (possibly) perpetrated in some of the most grisly fighting of WWII.

Today, we have veterans who need our support.  Whether or not we agree with the politics, their mere willingness to go to war to protect and defend us is heroic.  We owe it to these young men and women to learn their stories, help them re-acclimate to post-war lives, and protect them from their deepest, darkest memories of combat and, yes, deal with the bad things they did “over there”.

It is hard to imagine that some of our warriors and their families have not yet been granted US citizenship.  It is hard to imagine that some of our warriors and their families are treated like second class citizens because of sexual orientation.  It is hard to believe that anyone thinks our returning veterans don’t deserve the very best in medical care and social services.

I just hope that no one has to wonder, when the veterans of our generation are in wheelchairs with attendants, if they will be remembered and honored.  I hope the next generations remember that they once were warriors, protecting and defending us.

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A Morning at the Museum

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Yesterday, POB (partner of blogger), SOPOBAB (son of POB and blogger) and I joined HOSOB (husband of sister of blogger) and FOB (father of blogger) went to the Met to look at the Kubla Khan exhibit (everyone now spells Kubla in a more authentic way, but it was 10am on a Saturday and that kind of information will not get absorbed into my brain).

SOPOBAB is studying Chinese and the information on a significant dynasty was appealing to him.  Also POB talked up the portraiture galleries which had pictures of Revolutionary heroes, etc.  SOPOBAB has read a lot about that, too, and seemed interested.

Great, I think, ancient Chinese dynasties and portrait galleries, could there be anything else I would want to see LESS on a Saturday morning at 10am?  Arms and Armor.  Ok, I am lucky I think.  At least no trifecta.

As a child I hated going to the Met.  It was an overwhelming place with furniture exhibits, armory and ancient Greek statues.  None of it mattered to me.  As an adult, I enjoy the Modern Wing and some of the African art, probably because I have studied some about the art in these areas.

I actually enjoyed the Kubla Khan show, most especially because I watched SOPOBAB find things of interest and talk to FOB and HOSOB about portions of the exhibit.  SOPOBAB, at 8 years old, is a young man who can navigate an exhibit at a museum.

The American Wing was closed for renovation.  The gods were smiling on me.  No portraits of American heroes.  Phew.  Waaaaaitt!!! Where are we going now?  Not to the diner for lunch?  no?  Arms and Armory?  Really?

Ok, so I walk through the exhibit that totally freaked me out when I was a kid.  All of this body armor.  I am a sport and try to focus and learn something.

I look at the body armor and read about the history.  And then, in a moment, the one sight that compelled a blog entry:

It is hard to see, but Kind Ferdinand of Spain needed a lot of extra space for his genitals.  No other body armor has this.  I think this was a message to his adversaries.

So, I learned that in every exhibit, there is something for everyone.

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