Tag Archives: Kids

A Present From My Son

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POB, SOS and I were walking along the Hudson River this evening, talking about the upcoming wedding.

SOS started speaking haltingly, not knowing whether to raise a topic.

“Tell us what’s on your mind, buddy.”

“It’s a surprise.  For the day of the wedding.”

Uh oh, I thought.  I don’t need surprises at our wedding.

SOS noted my deep breath.  “I can tell you but you need to act surprised on the day.”

“Sure, bud, tell us.”

“I can tell you in clues and hints.”

Okay, he is reading too many detective books.  “How about starting with a big one?” I offer helpfully.

“It will happen in the morning before we leave the house.”

My sigh of relief was heard ’round the world — no surprises AT the wedding.

“That will have to be really early, then, because we have to leave for our hair and make-up appointments,” cautioned POB.

“That’s not a problem.  Just leave out the fruits you like.  Actually, if you could fill up the blender with fruits, yogurt and the protein stuff and then leave it in the refrigerator the night before, that would be great.”

Ok, so SOS is making us breakfast in bed — as long as we make it.

Sidebar:  I have visions of a future of “happy birthday, E-Mom, I got you a present.  I charged it on your card.”

“Bud, that is terrific.  SOooo sweet of you.  Mommy will set up the coffee maker.   Remember to push the button, ok?”

“I can do that.”

“You know, buddy, it sounds like a GREAT surprise.”

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I really don’t know life at all. . . .

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When I was 10 years-old, I thought my parents knew everything.  And, in point of fact, they were very smart.  And I felt very, very safe.

SOS is approaching that same tender age.  And I am not so smart and, as each day passes, I understand less and less about the world and its workings.  And I am not someone who can watch events unfold with quiet conviction that all will be okay in the end.

Maybe my parents saw their own version of a scary, out of control world and worked hard to shield us from it.  After all, the 1950s and 1960s were all about communist infiltration, threat of nuclear war with the Soviets and the reality of wars in far-off places.

Maybe my parents looked smart to me but were just as concerned about their future as I am now about ours.

Maybe I don’t have to have the answers; maybe it is enough that I can kiss away some of SOS’s problems with absolute promises that it — whatever “it” is — will turn out fine. Because the wonderful thing about having little kids is that sometimes they have little problems.

Maybe all that matters is that he feels very, very safe.  And so far he does.  And, protecting him makes me strong because I have to be.

So, LIFE, bring it on . . . .

 

 

 

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That Little Red Light House under the Great Gray Bridge

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Before there was the George Washington Bridge, there was a small red light house at Jeffrey Point near 177th Street along the Hudson River.  In fact, the Great Gray Bridge and the Little Red Light House are the subject of a classic children’s book you may have read to your kids.

I bet you thought that light house was long gone.  I was sure it was.  But, today, we went with a synagogue group (more on that later) in search of that little red light house that has survived even though it was long ago decommissioned.

On this cold and foggy day, just underneath the Great Gray Bridge,

there is this little light house

tucked away and almost invisible from afar.

But as you get closer to the base of the bridge,

there it is, resplendent in a new coat of paint against the gray sky.

And, although it is small, very small,

it would not be an easy landing.  You must hold tight on the rails against the whipping winds, when you stand outside, on the top near the beacon.

Ranger Jerry, a man who said repeatedly how he hated paperwork so we all must be careful,

told us the history of the light house which was more important for its fog horn than its beacon in the late 1800s and early 1900s when these waters were heavily navigated.

Still, I wondered what did this light house have to do with Jews?  After all we were there with a synagogue group.  Maybe it was a place of hiding for refugees smuggled into this country after Roosevelt closed the borders to fleeing European Jews.  Wow, an Anne Frank-like story right here in New York!!  That must be it!!!

Rabbi Rachel gathered us around to talk about this monument’s relevance to us, as Jews.  Something about Esther and Moses, each of whom was one against the powerful and many, and each of whom at some point felt too weak to lead.  Like the light house when the Great Gray Bridge was built.  Still each carried on and saved the Jewish people.  And still, the light house stands.

A big rousing Kumbaya to Rabbi Rachel for trying to connect all of this, and make it relevant to the kids and allegorical and all that.  What made it relevant to Jews was that a group of Jews schlepped to the light house on a cold, rainy, foggy day because we love our kids and they would have been disappointed if we didn’t go and we would have felt guilty.  So THAT is what is Jewish about the light house.

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Life Imitating Art

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Life Alert.  Remember when the company roared onto the home health care scene with the commercial about an old woman on the ground and yelling in a very nasal grandma voice, “I’ve fallen and I can’t get up”?

That commercial went viral — as much as it could in the 1980s before YouTube.  The Company went so far as to copyright that line.  Today their commercials are more respectable and less kitschy.  Still, they are morbidly amusing until you have to send away for information on the product.

In order to keep Dad in his home on his own, we needed to get Dad the life alert system.   Because we absolutely want him to have a hands-free intercom into which he can yell if HE has fallen and can’t get up.

Life Alert still has its quirks.  One of the selling points for the product is that there is a total refund if the person dies within 3 years of signing-up for the service.  No questions asked. Other than maybe, “may we see the death certificate?”  So, actually, at least one question asked.

Sounds like a stupid business model, since people who get Life Alert are not in the best of shape when signing-up for the service.  What will that person need with the money?  The person is DEAD.  Maybe the company banks on the fact that no one will remember about the money-back guarantee.  I guess it is a shrewd calculation about the probability of dementia afflicting the survivors rather than the probability of an aged, infirm person surviving another three years.

I went to Dad’s house today to have lunch and to try to reintroduce him to the Internet.  About once a month, we try this.  He doesn’t type well, so he is unlikely to send an email.  He can’t get the hang of the left click/right click, one-click/two-click protocols even though he was previously able to navigate them.

We spent an hour practicing getting in and out of Google, getting in and out of email, etc.  He would set up the email and I would type for him.  Then he would click send a few extra times.  We sent (mostly unintentionally) multiple emails to SOB and BOB.  They responded.  Uh oh.  Now what?  “Dad, do you remember which is the reply icon?”  He nodded.  “Great, now click.”  “Dad, click once.  ONCE.  only ONCE.  Ok Ok ok ok ok ok ok. Let me get us back to the right screen.”  And so it went.

SOB emailed me, “I am plunking down a cool million that by tomorrow he will be blaming something about the computer that is not allowing him to send or pick up his emails.”  So, I called Dad and said, “remember to try again a few times tonight to make sure you have the email and Google thing down.”  Either he will declare defeat tonight (and then I win the bet) or he will make it work and not try again until Monday (in which case I win the bet).  Insider information.   SOB uses her powers for good.  Me, not so much.

Time for a nap.  Tomorrow, POB, SOS and I are taking Dad to the Met to look at the new American Wing.  More bloggable moments.

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Time Again for the Stupid, Stinking, Painted Ponies (with apologies to Joni Mitchell)

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Dear Mom:

SOB (sister of blogger) and I had dinner tonight.  FILSOB’s (father-in-law of SOB’s) death has startled us anew about the fragility of life and the incomprehensible temporal divide between life and death.

FILSOB’s death also made us think of you, even though it is a week early for the “dark days” — the time, 9 years ago, when you started your month-long goodbye — December 13 to January 10.  In truth, the “dark days” of 2002-2003 were not all sad; some, in fact, were the most honest, most hilarious and most screwball-comedic of our lives.  The others were, well, depth-defying in their crushing pain.

You died before your peers.  They were there to mourn you and comfort us. What will happen when Dad, MILSOB (mother-in-law of SOB) or FOPOB (father of partner of blogger) — each should live to 120 like Moses — dies?  Who will still be alive, other than us (G-d willing), to mourn them?

Marty Hertz from the synagogue died and his funeral was today.  SOB saw it in the paper and told Dad.  He was grateful to SOB for telling him and glad he went to pay his respects.  He heard that most people get these announcements on email and so he wants us to fix his email so he can have access.  But we have tried dozens of times, and then we get calls from Dad saying, “somehow I can’t get on”, as if it has nothing to do with his pressing buttons in an arbitrary and explosive fashion.  The definition of crazy is to keep trying day after day, month after month, to teach Dad how to use the Internet.  So, since you’ve been gone, your daughters have become certifiable lunatics.

(As an aside, BOB (brother of blogger) wanted us to sign Dad on to Facebook.  What a nightmare that would be.  I told BOB not to have a thought about Dad unless he cleared it with SOB or me first.  Talking Dad down from the Facebook ledge took some serious cajoling.  “Are you telling me I CAN’T be on Facebook?” Dad asked defiantly.  “Yes, yes, I am, Dad — not because we don’t want you to be on Facebook, but because you can’t master email yet.”)

What to do about the email Bulletin of Death from the synagogue?  SOB and I decided that we will ask the synagogue to put us on the recipient list.  Then we can call Dad every day for his Day in Death minute and recap the day’s sad events.  That way, he’ll get the news and we will keep what is left of our sanity.

SOB and I can’t linger on the negatives for more than an hour or so.  We also talked about all of the fabulous life experiences you and Dad gave us.  You had no role models for parenting.  You both grew up poor and in dysfunctional homes.  And yet, you gave us things you never had and were loving and wonderful parents.  And your loving relationship has been a model for your children.

We, your children, are the culmination of generations of strengths, weaknesses, aspirations, stubbornness, love and combativeness.  Who will remember you, your parents and grandparents when SOB, BOB and I are gone?

Maybe, by remembering us, our children will remember the part of you that is in us.  Because your time on this earth cannot be forgotten.

I love you, Mom.

~ Blogger

 

 

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A Traditional Thanksgiving

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For Thanksgiving, we gathered the usual suspects around the table.  We also had two new people, a young girl from Paraguay and a colleague from Zurich.  SOB (sister of blogger) thought I should issue a disclaimer to my foreign colleague that this was not a “traditional” American Thanksgiving.  Clearly, we are not traditional.  No, sir.  Evidentiary exhibit no. #1: we have brisket instead turkey.

Then, more food than anyone should eat in a week covered the table, and there was more waiting in the kitchen.  I sighed.  SOB and I looked into each other’s eyes and we had to acknowledge that our Thanksgiving is as traditional and American as anyone else’s.

In truth, SOB and I feel best when there is so much food that no one could possibly go away hungry.  First, if a guest had a “clean” plate, that meant there wasn’t enough food and the neighbors would whisper that we didn’t come from a good home.  Second, my grandmother always said if the Russian army showed up at your door and you had plenty of food, they would leave the women alone.  Coincidentally, these precepts handed down from generation to generation drive us to mimic the conspicuous, over-consumption that is our American Thanksgiving.

We were, in fact, sooooo American that, even though it was brisket and not turkey, DOB (Dad of blogger), like so many patriarchs hating to turn over the reins of family celebrations, muttered “under his breath” (but so loud that the neighbors could hear), “I could’ve done a better job of carving.”  Gee, thanks, Dad.

SOB, we have arrived.  We are no longer an immigrant family.  We ARE America.

 

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Sometimes a lollipop is just a lollipop

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Our son, our source of sanity (SOS) is not a candy freak.  He prefers ice cream (vanilla, only) and french fries.

He still has Halloween candy left over.  Every few days he asks to have a piece of that candy as a treat.  Everything in moderation is our mantra.

DOB (father of blogger) is a retired dentist.  Growing up, we were not allowed to have candy at all.  Imagine what it is like to have to hand over your Halloween candy in exchange for raisins.  No wonder I hate Halloween.

Tonight was family dinner.  DOB came over at his usual 4:30pm and he and SOS watched Life of Birds, while SOS explained some of the finer points of the species they were viewing.  DOB was amazed at his grandson’s knowledge.  POB (partner of blogger) made a fabulous meal.  SOS was engaged and engaging at dinner and DOB was again amazed at his grandchild.  DOB was surrounded by family.  A great night for all of us, especially DOB. 

That is, UNTIL . . .

SOS asked for a piece of Halloween candy and picked a Tootsie Pop.  Then he came back to the dinner table with it.  I glimpse DOB:

HORROR

followed by

DISAPPOINTMENT (in me)

followed by the deep breath that means impending

LECTURE

“This is very bad.  You are introducing a corrosive agent into [SOS’s] mouth.  If a child has one of these every day, there will be damage to the gums, enamel, the placement of the teeth in the mouth . . .”

I stopped listening but I imagine that soon the fact that my son is sucking on a lollipop will inevitably lead — through perfectly reasoned logic — to nuclear confrontation with Iran.  So, I wanted to ratchet back the hysteria a little.

“It’s only a lollipop, Dad.”

SOS (sister of blogger) gave me a look that said, “whaaaat were you thinking saying that?  How long have you been alive?  Will you never be able to converse with Dad without me as referee?”

“Only a lollipop?  [said in a slightly outraged toned] Well, as you remember, you did not have any candy when you were young and aren’t you glad?”

SOS is right; I need her always as referee.  I could have ended the conversation right there by agreeing.  But no, no, no, I had to dig in deeper . . .

“Well, actually, no.  For years, I couldn’t stuff enough Snickers Bars in my mouth because, because, because  —- ” “the Forbidden Fruit?” (Cousin Birder offered helpfully) — “yes, EXACTLY.”

I saw my father’s face and I immediately promised him that SOS would always have very little amounts candy, drink copious amounts of fluoridated water, and hold hands crossing the street, and . . . ., all the while knowing that DOB will be re-hashing this episode with SOB over the coming days fearful for SOS’s future and our parenting skills.

I start chanting in my head: “Sometimes a lollipop is just a lollipop, Dad.” “Sometimes a lollipop is just a lollipop, Dad.” “Sometimes a lollipop is just a lollipop, Dad.”

Sigmund Freud said something similar about a cigar; that sometimes, a cigar is just cigar.  Sigmund added a caveat: “, but rarely.“

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A Winter White Wedding . . . in October

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Our G-d-daughters had their wedding this weekend.  At a retreat in the Catskills. POB (partner of blogger) and I were leading the ceremony.  SOS (our son, source of sanity) was the usher.

The weekend was fabulous.   The brides were beautiful.  It was such a happy occasion.

Ok, enough of that.  Now, my take on some key events in the weekend:

The rehearsal was called for 4 pm on Friday, so we set out on Friday morning.  The place was about 3 hours north of New York City.  Not quite above the tree line, but north of most measures of civilization.  It is in area hard hit by the economy and by the summer’s hurricane.

And no cell coverage.  Imagine being without access for 48 hours.  Nearly irreconcilable co-existence of serenity and extreme agitation.

We were told that the turn-off to the dirt road that would take us to the inn/camp site, would have a “road closed” sign and we were just supposed to ignore it.  Pause.  WHAAAAAT?

“Oh, yeah, and it would be good if your car had all wheel drive.”  (This is a picture of the road AFTER we arrived and the work men had graded the road.)  The pot holes in some places could swallow up a Mini Cooper.

We drove along the road in our sissy four door sedan, while the work men were trying to guide us toward to more “packed” dirt.  How NICE FOR US.

And, it was so sad to see the damage sustained by this community from the hurricane (let alone what the nor-easter was about to bring this weekend).

A house had slid off its foundation, almost into the road, as a result of the August hurricane.  It was a tragic sight.  But, at least, the owners found some morbid humor in it all (the sign reads, “For Sale. Flexible Price”).

We arrived at the Inn and extended grounds.  Note to brides:  When Jews say we don’t camp, we mean it: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WJLFcRdjW4o&feature=channel_video_title.  Still, because we love you, we camped (ok, it was a cabin with a working kitchen):

 

Good thing, it was so picturesque.

The inn doesn’t really serve food on the fly, so when we were hungry for lunch, the concierge directed us to the Norman Bates (as in “Psycho”) deli, all the way back down the dirt road.

There was very little food there and there was a for sale sign on the building.  We decided that we would rather find a diner than eat anything in this place, so we asked the slightly crazed looking woman who was chopping meat behind the counter in the dark about a restaurant.  “We don’t have much in the way of food around here.  But if you go up the road a ways, there’ll be something.”  Well, all right-y then.

At 4 pm, the wedding party and the officiants (us) proceeded to the lower fields.  When I asked for directions, someone pointed in a direction and said, “down yonder, a ways.”  (It may have been one of the brides.)  It was beautiful place and there was a babbling brook.  If it were, say, 20 degrees warmer, it would have been chilly and lovely.  At that moment, however, it was bone-chilling cold.

The brides also had us practice in a tent in case there was snow.

No decision on the venue until the morning.  We had a barbeque rehearsal dinner (in a slightly heated tent, no fire) and a campfire (outdoors, with fire).

At the barbeque, the bartender had the gauged-out ears (the rings that make a hole you can drive a truck through and that make middle-age women a little sick) and was heavily tattooed.  I saw the FEAR spelled out on the four fingers of one hand.  I had to ask, “what does the other hand say?”  It said HOPE, which I thought was a good sign.  As it turned out, this guy was the sweetest, most helpful guy the whole weekend.  So, yes, I did learn something.

SOS wanted to get back to the cabin because he was afraid that the Yeti would do a home invasion.  One of the brides assured me that one of her aunts probably had the “technology” necessary to protect us if necessary.  I kept that information confidential (until now) because I thought that would freak out our sissy family.

I went over the ceremony I had planned and X-ed out anything superfluous.  When everyone is freezing, an extra few words can mean pneumonia.

The compromise was that we would have the ceremony in the tent but the back flap (the one behind the bridal parties and me) would be open so we could see nature’s beauty.  And it was indeed a winter wonderland.  It was magnificent.  The tent was not heated.  There was already 5 inches on the ground and it was 30 degrees in the tent.  One bride and her attendants were wearing strapless gowns.  I had six layers, and heavy storm boots and thermal socks.  I was still dancing around to stay warm.  People were shivering.   POB read her part and I truncated a fair amount of my prepared remarks.  It was the LEAST I could do.

When the brides were “recessing”, the attendants looked to me for the proper order of recessional.  My answer, “RUN!”

The wedding reception and dinner were fabulous.  First, it was warm.  The food looked really great, especially the local grass-fed beef.  That is, until one of the waitstaff said, “I raised that cow myself”.  Showing immense restraint (because I have that way of picking at a scab), I did not ask the cow’s name.  It was hard eating some animal you kind of/sort of know in a post-mortem, creepy way.

So, there were some crazy moments, AND it was fabulous.  POB and I are still over the moon about the weekend.  The people who trekked to this remote place are a hardy bunch.  Everyone there wanted to be part of this event.  A little cold wasn’t going to scare them.  That love and joy carried through from Friday to Sunday and warmed an otherwise frigid weekend.

Love and family made us warm.  The weather be damned.

 

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Typical Sunday

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Another typical day on the road to Utopia . . . .

SOS (our son, source of sanity) has grown into a teenager (notwithstanding that he is only 9 years old) and his idea of Sunday cuddling is watching TV on the same bed as me, seemingly miles apart.  As a Jewish mother in the true sense of the tradition, I am not happy unless I am holding a finger, a toe or a hair of my child.  In truth, I am only happy when I have an iron grip about his mid-section to keep him close and away from the dangers in . . .  um . . . er. . . our safe home.  WhatEVER.  There are wilds out there SOMEwhere.

He would really rather play that be smothered by his mother (hey, I put the “mother” in smother, I thank you to remember).  Ok, that is healthy.  To a point.  Ok, it is healthy, but hard on a mother.

Still, I crave time with him.  So, in preparation for family dinner where wine must be served, I say, “Dude, come with me to the wine store?” Because it is Sunday, the only open (and good) wine store is a half-mile away.  “Can I take my scooter?” “Sure”.  I put on my running shoes.  He is going to scooter and even though he knows to stop at crosswalks, I must sprint after him.  Yes, I am a prisoner of my tradition.  Actually, I accept and revel in my tradition of over-protection.  So, sue me.  Or, rather, just know that I have provided for a therapy fund for SOS in our wills.

So, I am sprinting after my son as we go to the wine shop. THANK G-D for the crosswalks and red lights.

Thereafter, a lazy Sunday afternoon commences (not really: I am reading work-related documents and POB (partner of blogger) is cooking her guts out).

For dinner, the usual suspects come over plus POB’s father (FOPOB) who was enticed by the apple pie POB made (from the apples of the apple-picking extravaganza).  You mean, FOPOB, you wouldn’t come otherwise?  And you wonder why I wouldn’t let you have more than two helpings of the pie.  No, no, no, no.  Nothing is going home with you, bud, until you come here just for the sake of being with family.

DOB (Dad of blogger), SOB (sister of blogger), and HOSOB (husband of SOB) round out the dinner group.  We talk about Occupy Wall Street, the GOP, Obama, Libya, Syria and whether Rick Perry “swings both ways”.  As to the latter, if he weren’t so virulently right-wing (at least now) we would not even raise the issue of how he likes to have his fun.  But, you do it, you live with it.

So, 3.5 wine drinkers, two bottles.  Before dinner.

Thank G-d for food.  And the apple pie.  Food hath charms to soothe the socialist drunk.  (No, HOSOB, I am not ONLY talking about you.  I include DOB and me in that group.)  Mostly because SOB kept lubricating the conversation with the Merlot.)

OH, Cousin Gentle!! OH, Cousin Birder?? We needed you.

And, there is a mess in the kitchen that I must clean.  I love and hate POB’s cooking.

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Apple Picking

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POB is SOS’s school class parent.  Which means I have to show up to events.   Not so terrible if these events are in the city.

But today, oy, today, we had to schlep to Warwick, New York to pick apples. We could have just gone to the supermarket and got apples.  No, we had to go where THEY live and then kill them ourselves by picking them off the trees that are their life blood.  Just what I wanted to do on a Sunday — go apple-killing with my son.

More to the point, going apple-killing meant that we had to drive (read, get lost) through the great, yet incomprehensible, state of New Jersey.  The Neverlost Lady didn’t even try.  We crossed the George Washington Bridge and she just rebooted and said, “Destination?”  Really, Never-Lost Lady, can’t you even feel bad about leaving us to figure out how to get to Route 4 while we are driving at 60 mph?  No hesitation or guilt in your voice?  Even a “recalculating route” would have been gentler.

So, almost immediately inside the border of New Jersey, we were not only abandoned by Never-Lost Lady, but we were left with POB’s directions-from-hell coupled with her fierce determination to be right.  SOS kept asking, “are we lost?” or sighing, “we should have never rented a car; we should have asked someone from the class to take us.”  SOS was becoming the source of my INsanity.  I say to SOS, “we are a team, Buddy!! And a team member never abandons the team when things don’t go as planned!” The smart-aleck that he is, he says, “what if you didn’t get to choose your team?”  OK, KILL ME NOW.  IT IS NOT EVEN 10:30AM.

We actually arrive on time.  And then I am SOS’s hero.  Almost everyone is late because of traffic or getting lost in New Jersey.  (Really, I didn’t know New Jersey driving was so tricky?)

After everyone gathers, we go to pick Fujis and Macouns (which I kept calling Acuna Matata, from the Lion King).  SOS is in charge of yelling and screaming and running around.  POB is in charge of chit chat.  I am in charge of picking the apples.  Oh, cruel life.

AND, I have to carry that sack of apples all over the orchard.  Just sayin’.

After the kids had screamed (I would like to think it was a joyful noise, but the ringing in my head thinks otherwise), we sat at picnic tables for lunch.  One father, the uber-WASP who heretofore had shown no emotion, said in a relieved tone, “It is so good to see that other kids are just like mine!”  Oh, dear man (with names that, but for the absence of “Cabot” or “Lodge”, are OLD LINE and formidable in that one can forget the order of the names, since no one name stands out as a first name), you can emote with us.  We’re Jews.  We emote over anything or at least tell you to stop complaining.  But I digress.

I was soooooooo finished with the day that at 2:30pm.  When POB said we could finally leave the picnic table where non-driving spouses were sucking down whatever fermented liquids were available, I ran to the car.  “Hold it in!! We can find a restroom on the highway!!!!”  I yelled helpfully.  We were taking back one of SOS’s classmates and her mother.  The only traffic?  When we passed our house to drive to theirs.  Of course.  But it was sort of a captive play date.  I learned about the appeal of Zac Efron to young girls.  I learned that SOS is quite gallant; he told his friend to look away from the signs for the Hustler Club on 12th Avenue in the 40s.

When we got home, I remembered what one of the mothers whispered in my ear, knowing it was my first time at an apple picking outing, “make sure you have a full bottle of wine at home.  At least.”

 

 

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