Tag Archives: children

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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Thank you, Bristol

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DANCING WITH THE STARS – “Episode 1110”

Dear Bristol:

I was having a really bad few days.  But your trials and tributions on “Dancing With the Stars” made me realize that I take life and politics too seriously. 
I have never seen the show but popular culture has a way of seeping into my protected sanctuary.
And we learned again that good looks and popularity only get you so far.  And not always to the winner’s circle. 
And, Bristol, dear, no one hates you.  We don’t conflate you and your mom.  We hate HER. 
Most teen moms don’t have the resources you have, so they couldn’t be away from their little ones to go on, let’s say, for example, a television contest show.  Maybe, that will be the focus of your energies — bringing opportunities to young mothers. 
Use your fame for good, not for your mother.
Anyway, thanks for the levity. 
~ Blogger
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Carly Simon and music-to-fling-yourself-out-the-window-by

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Dear Mom:

These days have been rough with Dad.  Your mind was strong and your body was weak; his body is strong but his mind is fraying around the edges.  After a day insulating him from predators, I had to listen to Carly Simon, about life being eternal and love being immortal.  And then I had to self-torture more with her song about the death of her mother.  Not satisfied with this self-flagellation, I had to listen to Joni Mitchell sing the Circle Game.  Then, I had to go back to Carly and listen to Anticipation.  You get the gist of my emotional day.

Dad is in good hands, I promise.  We are protecting him.  He is relieved and grateful for us.  I said to him, “Remember when you said to me once, when the world was too much with me, ‘take my hand and you will be safe’ as we walked to the all night pharmacy so I could get some sedation and sleep?”  He said, “yes,” although I am not sure he did.  So I said, “Dad, you take my hand or you run to my office and we will protect you.  It is our turn now.”

The circle is complete.  Dad has to hang around until 120 because that is how old G-d let Moses live and he has to balance out your dying at 76.

I don’t care how crazy or forgetful he gets.  He needs to be in the world.  And you know how he pushes ALL my buttons and makes me crazy.  And I lose patience.  And he knows that I love him and SOB (sister of blogger) loves him and BOB (brother of blogger) and POB (partner of blogger) and WOBOB (wife of BOB) and his grandchildren and his nephews and nieces and friends all love him.  And he is not alone.  And never will be.

I miss you more than you can know, Mom.   It would be great if you could do something about the START treaty and the DREAM Act.  Also, whisper in Sarah Palin’s ear that she should stay a reality TV star.  Given the day, I know I will see you in my dreams.

~Blogger

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First, fire the pundits. Second, let’s talk about race.

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Yesterday op-ed by Bob Herbert of the New York Times really got me nuts.  It was the straw that broke the camel’s back.  I don’t care which party “gets it” or not.  That is not even a relevant question.

That we have a president named Barack Hussein Obama is in fact a delivery of his campaign promise of change.  The fact that he is decried as not that much different from other presidents is another delivery of his campaign promise of being President of all citizens, not just blue states.

You see, you may not have noticed, but the President of the United States is African-American.  Now, I am a middle-aged, white, Jewish lesbian (MWJL).  And I have no idea what it is to be anything or anyone other than who I am. But from my perspective (for what it is worth):

The President may be post-racial, but the country is not.  (We are making progress and, as we do, sometimes there is backlash that makes us think we are losing ground.)  The fact of his presidency is a challenge to much of the nation.  The fact that he is continuing some of the Bush policies in matters of war means that his opponents (the Grand Old White Man Party) need to frame his domestic policies as so radical as to threaten our very existence as a nation.  Thus, the charged rhetoric.

Because it is, at least in part, about race.  (Please no eye rolls — I am a MWJL, remember?)

Lest we forget that John McCain and Sarah Palin got a lot of votes and stirred up fears of the end of the reign of the Old White Man.

Remember when he let a little of his anger show when Professor Gates was arrested?  You would think that he created an international incident.  All he did was call the actions of white cops stupid.  Imagine George Bush doing that.  Not even a blip on the radar.

Listen to the racist language of the Tea Party.  These people are scared that they will be treated the way they have treated minorities.  They know that karma can be a painful boomerang.  So, now that the Establishment is run by an African-American, they are fighting the Establishment tooth and nail.

I had an epiphany the other day about DADT.  The President is Commander in Chief of a military run by conservative white men.  When he leads, they need to follow.  So, he needs to show he will listen, too.  So, maybe he needs to protect DADT for now as it winds it way through the courts and the Congress.

The President is the embodiment of the American dream, with the picture-perfect American family.  But he is not a reflection of America yet, but an aspiration of what America can be.  We all have some work to do.

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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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Mi Cherie Amour

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On Thursday afternoon, I slipped into the bathroom of my office and transformed into a girlie-girl.  I traded my clogs for pantyhose and heels and my turtleneck and blazer for a sleeveless black number that swirls when I walk, along with some serious bling and a full face of make-up.  POB (partner of blogger) insisted on the serious bling (she wanted anyone who might flirt with me to know I was expensive).  G-d bless her to think that someone at this outrageously hetero event (for which I was dressing up) would even look twice at me.

Of course, I ripped the hose as I put them on and — uh oh — this was not my pair of hose.  POB and I are different sizes, so I felt the sli-i-i-i-ide down below my waist happening almost immediately.  Ripped and sliding.  Dressing up is always epic.

The event was a fundraiser for one of the most worthwhile organizations (outside of refugee relief) — The Hole in the Wall Gang camps for kids with life threatening illnesses.

I left my office to meet a colleague who was flying in for the event.  We were going to the pre-party that started at 5pm.  Nothing like alcohol at 5pm for pickling your brain.  And goyishe hors- d’oeuvres — meat and cheese or pork.  Not even mixed nuts for the Jews.  I realize this is going to be a long night featuring a liquid buffet.  And that is so not my cultural upbringing — run out of booze, ok.  Run out of food? Change your name and leave town because you’ll never live it down.

We attended the main event — a concert at Avery Fisher Hall, featuring Meryl Streep (looking fab without plastic surgery), Emmy Lou Harris, John Cougar Mellencamp, Bill Cosby, Lyle Lovett (I kept thinking, Julia Roberts, really?), Bette Midler (who got middle-aged), Renee Zellwegger (she looked so much better before all the plastic surgery) and Stevie Wonder.

More important than these luminaries were the campers who helped emcee the show, and the video of Paul Newman, who together with Joanne Woodward, founded these camps.  One of the campers belted out “Somewhere Over the Rainbow”.  I think everyone was crying.  Here is a terminally ill tweenager singing THAT song.  A song of the downtrodden, the sad, the defenseless, those with hopes and dreams that seem destined not to be realized.  THAT song.  My heart ached and my mascara ran all over my face.

Paul Newman (may he rest in peace) was so eloquent — in the video made some years ago — about why he started these camps.  (I am paraphrasing, but I recollect it this way:)  “I have been lucky all my life and I wanted to help people who only knew the other side of luck.” He is a good man but I hate his salad dressings.

He looked at luck as a zero-sum game.   And if luck is a zero-sum game, then our luck means someone else has less (or no) luck.  Contrast that with people who say today, “I make my own luck.”  As if to impart that those who are “unlucky” don’t deserve success.  Ok, let’s super-impose this paradigm on children.  Can anyone with a sense of humanity say to a terminally ill child, “you could’ve made your own luck”?

Surely, we can share our good fortune — our luck — with the children.  The children.

Of course the evening got lighter when Stevie started playing Cherie Amour and a few other standards.  My colleague and I were standing and singing in Avery Fisher Hall while everyone else politely sat.  After an evening of ill children with fight in their hearts, it was good to be on our feet and singing.  It was life-affirming.

There was an after-party.  Cheeseburger sliders were served.  Really?  Goyishe v’hetzi (150% non-Jewish).  Still with the vodka drinks.

There was a Motown band and singers who were awesome.  I dragged my colleague out on the dance floor.  I told her, it’s New York, no one cares if two women dance.   We totally rocked out.  Of course, at that point my hose were dangling dangerously low like the pants on some young men and I was scared that they would just drop.  And it was getting late and really I wanted to get home, get in bed and feel the serenity of having my family safe and asleep around me.  We were waiting for Stevie Wonder to show up at the after-party so my colleague could meet her idol.

Finally he showed up and she was star struck and frozen in place.  The batteries in her camera ran out.  I had to elbow my way to spend a few minutes talking to Mr. Wonder while I motioned for her to get next to me.  Mr. Wonder’s bodyguards were concerned that I was doing something dangerous and were ready to drop me.  Finally she got near enough to put her hand on his shoulder and I snapped the photo using my blackberry.  I thanked Mr. Wonder for his patience (and holding on to my hand for what seemed an eternity as my colleague got close) and the conversation and I receded into the crowd.

My colleague is on Cloud Nine.  We have bonded.  I can call her “friend” now.  Without a hard-headed New Yorker, she would not have even gotten close to Mr. Wonder.  As a friend, I tell her, “I have been in heels for seven hours, my pantyhose are almost falling off, and I need to go home now that we have a picture with you and Stevie Wonder.”  I am walking you to your hotel and I am throwing myself in a cab.  The alternative is to put a sign on you that says ‘return after 3 days to . . . .’  I would get to sleep but I would get fired.  So you decide:  How is this evening turning out?”

Having gotten a picture of Stevie Wonder, she didn’t put up a fight.  Thank G-d.  I got her back to her hotel and in 15 minutes I was in my comfy apple-green jammies in my comfy bed and ready to sleep.

I laughed, I cried, I danced, I shook hands with a celebrity, I was moved to help others.  A great day.

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Tuesday, The Day My Pampered Child Called Me Lazy

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Ok, Ok, Ok, Ok, Ok.  I am not good in the morning.  Mostly, because I have very unrestful sleep.  All day, every day, I am tired to the bone.  That is just life for me.  I yawn even when I work out because even that much adrenaline doesn’t keep me awake.  I would drink coffee all day if that burning sensation in my stomach or esophagus would quit.  You get the point.

POB (partner of blogger) has been away on business and is coming home late tonight.  Our son remarked that “Mommy will be so tired tomorrow she’ll seem as lazy as you, E-Mom.”  Shock.  Disbelief.  Dismay.  My son is calling ME, lazy?  At first I think maybe he understands the concept through comparison with his own exemplary model of laziness.  But then I realize there is neither an introspective aspect nor an attempt to bond with a fellow lazy person.

This is what “we in the Tribe” would call a Jewish compliment — an insult made less stinging by including someone, i.e., POB, with otherwise excellent qualities in your category of degeneracy.  So, since he has never been around Yiddish speakers or members of the immigrant generation, there must be a genetic component to his uncanny ability to deliver a stinging, yet subtly amusing Jewish compliment.

I would have appreciated it more had I not been appalled and yelling.  Yelling is the one throw-back parenting technique that is still grudgingly allowed by the good parenting police.  But it can only be used when you have had another stressful day at the office, working ever harder to mute the effects of a bad economy on your sense of self-worth and your ability to provide for your family.  So, I properly invoked the technique.

But then I know that my son was just expressing things as they appear to him, unencumbered by a social filter.  I know that others his age have some form of social filter.  My son is different that way.  And most times we work through the issue without my resorting to yelling, “how dare you say something like that?”  My son was a little freaked out but not the least bit bowed by the event.  Only now I have to put me in a time-out and have a serious talk with me about my behavior and how to channel my emotions in more socially acceptable ways.

And my son?  He had dinner, shower, books and music before bed.  I told him I love him and nothing changes that even if I was angry at what he said.  And I do love him, and I always will.

But I am NOT lazy.  (Ok, not compared to him.)

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A Great Party

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Our dad’s 90th birthday party was a wonderful success.  It was a beautiful day and the party was in a greenhouse with an outdoor space.

One of my dad’s friends spoke about meeting Dad in 1943 when Dad was a corporal and his friend was a private.  They re-met during the Korean War (my father almost ran him over in Tokyo) and then at dental school and have been friends for 67 years.  I can’t imagine knowing someone for that long who could still say wonderful things about me.  Crazy.

Lots of relatives or people who are relatives just by longevity.  Follow me on this one.  My aunt, my mother and Blossom (among others) were sorority sisters at college in the 1940s.  (My aunt was dating my uncle and introduced my mother to her boyfriend’s brother (my dad) but that is another story for another blog entry).  Blossom married my aunt’s cousin whom she divorced.  (That cousin was there with his wife, even though they are not technically related either, but longevity is more important than blood anyway.)  Blossom then married Aaron.  Blossom died and Aaron married Marjorie.  The first time POB (partner of blogger) and I met Marjorie was at a cousin’s bar mitzvah.  But Marjorie must have been part of the family in another life, because she had no boundaries from the start.  POB was pregnant and Marjorie turned to her and said, “Known donor or unknown donor?”.  POB, having been raised in a good home and not quite used to direct, personal questions from near-strangers was so shocked that she actually answered.  I then turned to POB and said, “well, now that Marjorie knows, don’t you think we ought to tell our parents?” So a person married to someone who married into the family who was married to someone who was no longer married into the family asserted family privilege to ask any question that came to mind, without filter.  I love this family.

My cousins — Dad’s nieces and nephews — talked about things they remembered about Dad from when they were kids in the 1940s and 1950s.  Cousin Gentle (from prior blogs) talked about how Dad gave tickets to a ball game to his father (my Uncle Dave) so Uncle Dave could take Cousin Gentle to a ball game.  It turns out it was Don Larsen’s 1952 World Series perfect game.  Still the only ball game that Cousin Gentle has ever attended.

Another cousin talked about Dad’s teaching her to build card houses, and another talked about Dad’s taking him to the Opera.  All of them talked about the beautiful things he brought home for each of his nieces and nephews from Japan after the Korean War.  They remembered him as someone interested in them and kind and gentle.  It was really touching to hear new things about my Dad and hear the love expressed in those memories.

One cousin started talking about the meaning of family and how he is a trust and estates lawyer (I had to stop him from taking the opportunity for self-advertisement) and how he has seen families fight and disinherit each other.  He started to go off on a tangent and get a little worked up, without an end in sight.  SOB (sister of blogger) gave me a sign that I had to intervene, so I got up, went over to my cousin and took the microphone away and offered it to the next cousin who wanted to speak, in age order.  Cousin Gentle and SOB now call me “Hook” because I pulled that act off the stage.

SOB talked about the first night she was an intern and was in the hospital all night and was scared and overwhelmed.  At about 3am, she got a page.  It was Dad, wanting to make sure she was alive.  She never forgot that and it helped her through that rest of that night’s torture.

Then BOB (brother of blogger) talked beautifully about how Dad is a role model for being a good husband and father and how special it was that Dad was his best man at his wedding.  BOB is not usually that emotional, introspective or even talkative around us.  I was so moved.  But the moment was over like a shooting star flaming out, so all returned like a flash to status quo ante.  But for the moment, there was kumbaya in the air, as if it were being sung for the first time.

My dad is such a sweet, and humble man.  When it came time for the cake, he thanked everyone for coming and said how fortunate he was to be surrounded by friends and family and he was grateful to everyone for being there and for their kind words.  The cousin from whom I had to yank the microphone said in a stage whisper (really a stage SHOUT), “what, that is all he is going to say?”  Aaaaargh.  My dad said it all in a few words and did so with grace and humility.  Dear Cousin, a lesson might be learned here.

We had the quintessential Jewish goodbye — we all said goodbye but didn’t leave.  In fact, I must have said goodbye three or four times to the same people.  The rule is if there is more than a half-hour between goodbye kiss and departure, you have to start over again.   I don’t know the provenance of the rule, but it caused the goodbyes to go on for almost 2 hours.  Also, it probably didn’t help that we had pictures from 1920 to the present out on a table by the door so people starting reminiscing anew as they were leaving.  Some of the older folk sat down in comfy chairs to nap a little while they waited for the rest of their group to finish.  I wish I had pictures of that.

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When “Rights” Just Cover Prejudice and Cowardice

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A Michigan assistant attorney general, a man who is charged with enforcing the laws of the State of Michigan, is waging a vicious, cyber-war against a gay college student.

Ok, let’s take a moment and feel sorry for this assistant AG who has unresolved issues about his own sexual orientation and a big dose of self-loathing.  Now, that moment is over.

Time to rant about him and his employer the Attorney General of the State of Michigan, defends his assistant AG even though he calls him a bully.

The AG hides behind the “free speech” argument.  Let’s assume it is applicable here.  There are limits to one’s right to free speech. The classic example is “you can’t yell fire in a crowded theater” [unless there is, in fact, a fire].  The government can prosecute you if what you are saying is calculated to incite violence and does, in fact, incite violence.

Here are the rules of thumb for free speech:

Free speech is limited to reasonable time, reasonable place and reasonable manner. (That’s why there are limits to where you can hold rallies and when your neighbor can do heavy construction on his property.)

Free speech doesn’t protect you from the consequences of that speech.

Do you really think that if this Michigan assistant AG were harassing say, a co-worker, a female student or another civil servant, that the AG would feel the same way and hide behind “free speech”?  Really?

No, the AG doesn’t want to take the side of a gay college kid.

Because that would be unpopular and require that he take a stand against his conservative constituency.

So, the head legal officer of the State of Michigan in the United States of America in the year 2010 will call a subordinate a bully, but won’t stand up to him??

Don’t you think that bullying has caused too many young people to be emotionally scarred or so despondent as to be suicidal?  If the recent suicide of a Rutgers student doesn’t make law enforcement, law enforcement, stand up to bullying, what will become of our society?
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Michigan attorney general defends employee’s right to blog

http://i.cdn.turner.com/cnn/2010/US/09/30/michigan.justice.blog/story.shirvell.cnn.jpg

September 30, 2010|By the CNN Wire Staff *

Michigan Attorney General Mike Cox defended an assistant’s constitutional right to wage an Internet campaign against an openly gay college student, even though he considers that employee a “bully.” “Here in America, we have this thing called the First Amendment, which allows people to express what they think and engage in political and social speech,” Cox told Anderson Cooper on CNN’s “AC 360” on Wednesday night. “He’s clearly a bully … but is that protected under the First Amendment of the United States Constitution? Yes.”

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Back in School

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Tonight was curriculum night at our son’s school.

The teachers tell the parents about what the kids are learning and the year’s goals.  As if I know whether it makes any sense or is grade-appropriate.  Nevertheless, I go because, well, you know the adage, “be there or be talked about”.  In fact, POB (partner of blogger) and I did talk about those who weren’t there over dinner later.  Let’s face it, we are all just children with graying hair.  So, if you put us in a gossip-y environment, then you better run for cover.

We were at the school for two hours, during which I slipped into the slouching, smart-mouthed, bored student of my youth.  I was disruptive during the reading teacher’s presentation because I was joking back and forth across the table with another mother (who has made a cameo in prior blogs — the mother of our son’s future wife).  Later, I was whispering to the father of my son’s best guy friend (who also has made a cameo in prior blogs — he was the one in need of adult male bonding rituals after months at home with the kids).

During the math teacher’s presentation, I was getting antsy and was counting ceiling tiles.  During the art and music presentation, which was last, I stared at the clock until there were ten minutes remaining and then I started packing up.   Just the kind of child that makes teachers leave teaching.

POB took notes throughout and asked pertinent questions.  She elicited smiles and positive reinforcement from the teachers.  She was like that as a kid.  Remember we’ve known each other since we were ten years old and I know that she always did her Hebrew school homework.  Her Hebrew school homework, for G-d’s sake (in a manner of speaking).

If there is a test on the details at the next parent teacher conference, POB will ace it and won’t let me peek at her paper.  I just know it.

My poor son.  I sure hope nature (POB’s genes) beats nurture (my overbearing personality) because otherwise he is toast.

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