Category Archives: Mothers

Losing my mother — 6.5 years later

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Dear Mom:

Tomorrow is your grandson’s 7th birthday.  You died one day shy of his being six months old.  That means today is 6 and 1/2 years since you died.  I can’t believe it. There is no “moving on” after your death; there is only “moving with” your memory and wishing you were here. Next to the computer is a picture of you holding him after his bris and I am sitting with you on your left. The person on your right (unseen in the photo) said something tremendously stupid because I can see it in your eyes. But I know that look — you were measuring your response to an inane statement. In fact, I have that same look on my face in the picture. Genes are amazing things, except you would have responded with something perfectly diplomatic but to the point. I would have responded like Larry King did when he interviewed Jean Harris (who killed the Scarsdale diet doctor), “so, you’re a murderer”.

You live in me and as I age I look more and more like you. This comforts me. But I need for your grandson to know you or know about you, so he can appreciate the remarkable person who was his grandmother.

I tell him about you all the time.  I use those Yiddish phrases that you used with us when you cupped our punims adoringly.  Sometimes, I tell him what Grandma would have said if she were alive because I want him to have a sense of you. So if he does something funny or wonderful or if he needs comforting, I tell him what you would have said to him if you were alive.

A few months ago, we were all in a cab after visiting Dad.  I buckled up and put your grandson on my lap and “strapped him in” with my arms forming the “Grandma grip” (which he knows comes from your legendary strong grip on your children’s arms when crossing streets).  The cab stopped short and everyone else went flying (though, thank G-d, no one was hurt).  Your grandson was safe in the Grandma grip.  That is the image of you I want him to carry with him — the strong, protective love that endures even though you are in Heaven.

I wonder if you would like my blog and would send the link to all of your friends. I wonder if you would comment. You would probably send me direct tweets that said, “be nice” in that slightly chastising way you have. You would worry about Sarah Palin’s daughter being so young to have had a child and tell me to be gentle about that. But, you needn’t worry. I, too, feel that the world is too much upon her. It is her mother who makes me crazy(ier).

Mom, this is not getting easier. And I know you would say to me, “my poor little tsatskele, if I could have this sadness for you, I would.” And that’s the catch: so much more to mourn.

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Out of the mouths of babes . . .

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My seven year-old said to me, “Mom, don’t be angry, but I found the person to spend my life with and we are getting married.” He knows that his other mother and I first met when we were ten years old at camp (and then re-met almost 25 years later), so maybe he thinks that’s how it happens. The young girl in question is someone he has known for years and we adore her and her parents. But I think it is a little early for the betrothal. Luckily, while they are close friends, they don’t spend that much time together. And, he still would rather play with dinosaurs, so thank G-d for small favors.

Don’t know if I’ll survive his adolescence.

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Dear Mom

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Dear Mom:

In life, some days are just horrible, no-good, terrible days. Today is one of those days.

I wish I could jump back in time to hear your voice and feel your hug.  But, to paraphrase Joni Mitchell, those stupid, stinking painted ponies keep going up and down and round and round on the carousel of time. 

I saw a moment between a mother and daughter — the mother comforting a crying daughter, and taking her home to care of her — and I thought that was what you would have done, just as you did a long time ago even into my late 20s, when I would run home because I was scared of life and responsibilities and failure.  I was sad for the daughter but I knew she would be all right — her mother’s love is strong and her nurturing so apparent.

Carly Simon thinks her mother is dancing with Benjamin Franklin on the other side of the moon.  I think you are lecturing G-d about changing things in the world.  I know you’re busy because the world is a bit of a mess these days.

Stop by for a chat in my dreams when you have a moment —

Love, me

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Vacations, staycations and parkations

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I don’t know when the phrase “staycation” moved into the lexicon, but my partner and I started about three years to go on a semi-annual weekend away in New York City (where we live) while trusted people stayed with our beloved little (ok not so little anymore) baby. 

It was a vacation without travel hassles and delays, without time lost getting somewhere and we live in a one of the greatest cities.  Also, we could be a cab ride away from our son or our fathers (who are widowers) should anything happen.  What I really mean is that we would always be a cab ride away from any emergency room in Manhattan because I always imagine the worst.  The old joke about a jewish mother’s calling a relative and saying, “worry! I will tell you later why,” captures my personality exactly.  I can go from a stubbed toe to nuclear holocaust in 5 seconds.  (If ,let’s say, Kim Dong Il stubs his toe and gets really mad, then he wants to lash out . . . . you see how this gets out of hand.)  But, I digress.

So we love staycations.  We also have vacations with our son.  Let me be more precise.  Prior to the Great Recession, we had staycations and vacations.  Today we had a parkation.  G-d bless the conservancies and public-private partnerships that keep our city parks and waterfronts habitable.  I would humbly ask for more sanitary rest rooms, and I am grateful that I have a son so I don’t often have to yell, “squat!! NOOOOOO sitting!!”

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Urban life doesn’t need to be anonymous

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40 years ago, NY was a small town in many ways. If my mom and I were out doing errands or whatever, and Mrs. Moorestein or Mrs. Freeman or Mrs. Graham were on the street, there was no way that we passed them by without stopping and visiting and I had to show my best five year-old manners. And they scared me because they were ADULTS with booming voices. As of two years ago, Mrs. Moorestein still lived nearby my father and we hugged and kissed when we saw each other. We had been neighbors for decades.

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My mother’s wishes and her mother’s honor

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This week is my mother’s mother’s Yahrzeit.  Yahrzeits always remind me of the Days of Awe (10 days including and between Rosh HaShanah and Yom Kippur).
 
 
I am not much into religion since my mom died and given all of the heretical things I say I am waiting for the lightning bolt to strike.
 
I am not sure why this happened, but about three years after Mom died, I started getting reminders from my parents’ synagogue about the anniversaries of my grandparents’ deaths — their Yahrzeits.  Maybe the synagogue staff finally got it together to start sending them to me but the staff wouldn’t have known where to send them unless my mother had put me down as the next recipient of these notices.  None of my father, brother and sister receives these notices.   I was overwhelmed that my mother trusted me with the responsibility of remembrance.  After all of the issues, sturm und drang, etc. about my being gay (which all were resolved 15 years ago, thank G-d), my mother trusted me with this, in the end.
 
Remembering is very important in Jewish tradition.  It is said that people live again when remembered.  That does not generally resonate with me.  But when I lit the Yahrzeit candles (Jews light them on the anniversary of the death and on Yom Kippur) this last year for Mom and her parents, I understood why.  In this world of a 3 billion or so people, a person dies every second.  I lit candles to say I remember you and you are not anonymous in this world and your life is not forgotten.  I realized that I don’t know my great-grandparents’ names and no one remembers them.  And so, maybe my son’s grandchildren (should he be so lucky) will not light a candle for me.  Maybe, remembering two generations is more than anyone should have to do, because it dilutes meaning of remembrance if these dead people are strangers.  But this Friday I will remember especially my grandmother on her Yahrzeit.  She was a life force for my mother, a woman who suffered greatly in Europe and was often a prisoner of those memories.  And on Friday, my grandmother will not be an anonymous dead person.  Because I will remember. And, now, I get it.  Remembrance.  A commandment under Jewish law to remember and, by remembering, to honor.  And by honoring, to make sure that your loved one isn’t relegated to a statistics of unknown and unnamed lives and deaths year in and year out.

 

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Kids

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We had a 7th birthday party for our son. 17 kids doing gymnastics at Chelsea Piers. The screams of joy and peals of laughter are still echoing in my head — like a migraine. I can’t wait until mid-week when the pain is gone and I look back on the party fondly.

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Remembrances

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I  think about my mother all of the time but most especially around my son’s birthday. She died when he was six months old. My mom was a woman of uncommon strength with a deep concern for humanity. She believed in the American dream — opportunity for all who wanted a better life. She was a product of the American dream. Mom loved a good protest, voter registration drive or a lively dinner time political debate with family and friends. She believed that people could do small acts to heal the world. I remember thinking that I was glad she didn’t live to see the Iraq invasion. And I knew her pride in this country would have soared if she were able to vote in the Clinton-Obama Democratic primary. She, like me, would have been torn by the choice but thrilled that such a choice were even possible. And once Candidate Obama became President Obama, she would have cried at the ability of our nation to see past old prejudices.  And then she would worry about his safety. And then she would want to scold him for smoking. And she would be grateful for the opportunity to set a new course for our nation and the world.

Mom would not “get” blogging or twitter. She would say, “get up from the computer and see the world and do things”. And she would rail against the dangers of typing on those raspberry gadgets while walking on the street. (She was never good at names or idioms). I would say, “BLACKberry, Mom!!” And she would wave me off with a quick retort, “DEEEtails”.

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