Tag Archives: Mothers

A Typical Family Dinner

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As we do almost every Sunday, the extended family — dispersed far and wide on the Island of Manhattan — gather for dinner prepared by POB (partner of blogger).  Three generations of the family are represented and range in age from 7 to 89 years-old.

My 26 year-old cousin who is a runner was talking about her gastro-intestinal problems, which she believes somehow is a sign from her father, z”l, who was a gastroenterologist (sp?).  Ok, as much as our family is fixated on our intestinal fortitude, I am skeptical that her father, my dear cousin, would cause these kind of issues from Heaven so that she could remember him.  I suggested it might be a parasite from living for 5 years in China.  Food for thought, so to speak.

All my father had to hear was that someone was having issues with diarrhea and he started a sidebar with my sister the doctor about his own issues.  Here is where there needs to be a firewall between parents and children.  Ok, even if there were such a firewall, we would have drilled a tunnel under that it a looooong time ago.  How did I know the topic of this sidebar, you ask?  The look on my sister’s face told me everything I needed to know.  Since my sister doesn’t drink, I needed to give my father more wine to stop the conversation.

All this is going on while I watch my 23 year-old cousin fade in and out.  He came over early to toss a football with my son, and just as we were getting into the really gross intestinal details (over hors d’oeuvres, mind you), he was finally feeling the hangover from the night before — as in, it took him more than 14 hours after his last drink to process all of the alcohol in his system.  I am not naming names, but he is a former hockey player and maybe some of my family will recognize the descriptions so far and call him out on that.  But I am not saying anything.  Nope.  Lips are sealed.

Then a cousin of my generation put together a beautiful, stirring composition, “At My Daughter’s Wedding,” for my sister and brother in law in a CD with the cover featuring a photo at their wedding with my mother’s picture in the foreground and my sister and brother in law in the background.  My sister and I fought hard to hold the tears back.  We talked today and we were both choked up that my cousin captured the joy of the event and the sadness that our mother was not alive for the wedding, all in the beauty of his music. It was an extraordinary moment.  We also played a song he wrote about our family history so the young ones could be further indoctrinated into the cult of our family.  I really cannot say enough about my cousin’s music — it hit a chord in my sister and me that is too deep for words and I hope he understands the depth of his gift from the looks in our eyes.

Of course, this same cousin gave me cassette tapes about dealing with loss when my mother died and I had forgotten about them for over seven year until POB reminded me about a week ago.  Then, my head and heart exploded when I realized I had the tapes when his mother died.  Oy.  Oy.  Just when he needed them.  Oy. Oy.  I returned them to him last night.  A little late.  Oy. Oy.

Then, of course, my cousin and brother in law had to have an eating contest, just like two brothers, which warmed our hearts.  POB made a traditional roasted chicken and vegetables using a Kosher chicken for our young cousin and an Indian chicken dish with basmati rice and some other vegetables for those of us more culinarily assimilated.  Of course, the “boys” kept asking our kosher cousin if she had had enough so they could consume the rest.  In other words, eat fast or don’t eat at all.  It’s a tough world out there and our house is sometimes a little like boot camp.

Of course, one never knows what will happen next at a family function.  My sister and brother in law brought over their wills to be witnessed.  My sister wanted to do this quietly, so of course I had to announce what we needed to do to all assembled.  So after dessert, we assembled the necessary witnesses and signed as appropriate.  The lawyers at the table asked if they were each of sound mind and then we decided that no one in our family could really pass that test.  We respectfully withdrew the questions and proceeded with the signing ceremony.

From the mundane (diahrrea) to the emotional (music for my mother z”l) to the eternal (the wills).  No wonder these dinners are exhausting.  And wonderful.

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Lego

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My son is into Star Wars and really, really, really, wanted a battleship cruiser (or something like that).  It was expensive so we said this was an early birthday present.  And he is really good about not asking (ok, not begging) for things everywhere we go and, well, he is our one and only child, so ok, we spoil him.

He and I go to the store to buy this colossal box and return home immediately to assemble this, the “most-awesome-gift-ever-thank-you-so-much”.  Here is the trick, this thing requires assembling 1,180 Lego pieces, ranging from small to minute, in the right sequence and in the right place.  There are two, yes, two, instruction manuals because all the instructions can’t fit into the first manual that is the thickness of, say, telephone books for most towns across America.

Who was I kidding — my son got distracted with the easily-assembled action figures almost immediately, leaving me with the assembly of the mother ship.  I learned many things from this experience (which isn’t over by a long shot), the most important of which is that I need a stronger bifocal prescription.

Within an hour of starting the assemblage, POB (partner of blogger) takes my son off to a playdate in Brooklyn, leaving me on the floor with 1,180 pieces of a battleship.  Two hours later, I am still on the floor.  I go to the gym for 45 minutes but really can’t focus because I must conquer the Lego monster that is in pieces on the floor.  The box says “For ages 9 through 12.”  Hah!!  I don’t know anyone that young that has a PhD in Lego construction. 

POB and son come home to find me on the floor of his room, in a defeated, “woe is me,” pose.  I simply need to take a nap.  POB eyes me with that “you’re a wimp but I love you” look as I take to my bed with great pomp and ceremony.

That night is our date night, so we leave our young prince in the capable hands of a wonderful young woman studying to be a special ed teacher.  When we get home, our babysitter says to me, “G-d bless you for trying to put together that Lego thing!  It is impossible!!”   Ahh, validation.  Still, POB eyes both of us with suspicion.

Next morning I wake up (later than POB and our son because, well, my son may be a prince, but I am the Queen) and POB says, “Omigod, that LEGO thing is impossible!!  I tried to attach some things, but I think I did it all wrong.  It is insane!!”  Ahh, validation.

I look and she got it backwards AND upside-down.  Impressive. 

My hopes of a project with my son are dashed.  But I take appreciation — and, ahh, validation — where I can get it. 

And I am reveling in it!!

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Life – one week later

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Yes, to answer one comment from an everyday reader, there were sufficiently crazy things that happened in this last week, but, in my pledge not to alienate family and friends who read this blog, I must hold back.  Think of a big

CENSORED

where blogs about this last week ought to have been.   Maybe I will write about going to the acupuncturist.  Mañana.

So, we start again with today:

When we were kids, our dad used to take us on more-or-less yearly pilgrimages to Paragon Sports on 18th Street and Broadway to get outfitted for the Spring and warm weather sports (we also did an ancillary run in late June, just before camp, but it was epic in a different way). We all grew over the winter (why do kids grow over winter?) so the prior year’s gear didn’t fit anymore.

For me, this was our family’s official opening day of Spring.  Passover was religious but this was visceral. The promise of warmer, longer days leading into endless summer.  I still hold on to the fantasy even though I am 45 years-old and haven’t had a summer of play in 28 years. I bet my siblings don’t remember this, but I do. My father, in his hat that looked vaguely Russian, with a dress coat and wing-tipped shoes, in a sports mecca.  In fact, I would bet money that my brother doesn’t remember these excursions because he can only remember that Dad dressed him in a Mets outfit at a Mets game (in 1969 when they were the champs).  But you have to remember that my dad wore wing-tipped shoes on the weekends until the mid-80s, so the man did the best he could.

In truth, since my siblings were 3 and 4 years older than me, these outings probably lasted until I was in 8th grade, after which it was impossibly embarrassing to shop with my dad. Maybe in my mind’s eye, these trips loom larger than they really did, although I associate Paragon with Dad.  Also, in the 1970s, to schlep from the upper east side to 18th Street and Broadway with kids in tow was not for the faint-of-heart because Union Square was a needle park and there were many unsavory characters all around.  And in these 28 years, that area transformed, so it is not like going parent-and-child into a combat zone.

Maybe today it felt like a Family Event because my son and I made the trek to Paragon, this time from the Upper West Side.  My son wanted to stay home because it was raining cats-and-dogs (which is one of the stupidest expressions ever) and the wind was howling.  No way we are staying in.  We are going on a pilgrimage, young man.  You have outgrown all of the sports gear you have.  And, now that you are interested in football, hockey, baseball and basketball, we are going to get you the right stuff.  Yes, sir.  You may have two moms, AND you are going to have the right sports gear.   Even if you NEVER use it.

My son is more of an intellectual sports fan.  He likes facts and information and he likes to watch others play.  So, this trip was a little, eensy, bit more about me than him.   Never mind, one of the joys of parenting is that you can thrust your desires upon them and then pay for the years of resulting, required therapy.

We get to Paragon, which has gotten bigger over the years, but it essentially the same store (ok, I have been back over the years, but it is amazing how much the same it is).  A young man, Vladimir, helped us get the right size baseball mitt (I got one, too), basketball, soccer ball and football.  Also a solid, well-made baseball and an air pump.  I inquired about oil for the glove and how long he needs to sleep with the ball in the glove under his pillow to mold the mitt.  My son was browsing the sports jerseys for his favorite teams.  Ok, this really was all about me.

I did not get him hockey gear because there is no way he is playing that insane sport.  Oh, and, football, you ask?  Only two-hand touch, thank-you-very-much.  I did not bring him into this world to watch him go out on a stretcher.

I wanted to play with everything once we got home (even if doing so violated the house rules I set).  He wanted to play Star Wars: The Clone Wars on the computer.   Ah the picture becomes even clearer, you think.

At one point, I worried that I bought all of this gear and didn’t get my son a “cup”.  Then I realized that I am the only one who will be playing with this equipment and I need different protective gear, including some for my ego, my heart and my hopes of playing ball with my son.

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Dear Mom

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Recently, I have welcomed some friends to the unfortunate club of children who have lost parents.

The finality of it all.  And the guilt that life must go on.   I remember how hard it was to breathe sometimes.

What I don’t dare tell them is that after 7+ years, the snapshot I hold of you in my mind — white-haired wig, tennis sneakers, slacks, blouse (Dad didn’t like you in turtlenecks) and an Eddie Bauer or J. Crew woolen zip-up sweater — is getting a little vague and dimmed as time goes by.  I have razor-sharp memories of many, many things — throughout the years and especially during the month before your death — but the sound of your voice, Mom, the sound of your voice, exists only in my imitation of what I remember of it. Has that become the memory and is your voice lost to me?

You are still a force in my life. I was recently at a company retreat and there were over 300 people I didn’t know.  I just pretended to be you — the way you would walk into a room and find ways to meet and really talk with — well, up to then — strangers.  My mantra, “just be Mom,” enables me to work the room but never like you, the master.  You had a way (mine is diluted with Dad’s bluntness) of making people feel, as if when talking to you, no one else in the world existed and you had all the time in the world to chat.  And they were right, you remembered everything and you were interested in them and what made them happy or sad and, if they seemed lonely, then — whether they liked it or not — they had to come to every holiday at our house.  I feel that way, too, about people I meet, but sometimes my directness (ok, Dad’s genes again) turns them off.

To be fair to Dad, life in the fast-paced world of corporate law (and its diminishing economic rewards) make bluntness a relevant and useful tool.  I try to do it á la Larry King (I know, I know, you stopped watching him once he started interviewing headline catchers and hangers-on), with a directness that is a little self-effacing but gets the point across.  You see, Mom, I realize that since you died at an age a full 25 years younger than when your parents died, that I cannot rely on the fullness of time for people to come around.  In truth, that is a cop-out.  I am not as patient as you.  And although I believe in the goodness of people and their senses of fundamental fairness, I have a more cynical streak.  Since you died before the invasion of Iraq, you are just going to have to trust me that some Republicans and those who are leaders of the military-industrial complex are beyond redemption.

But then again you missed the heady days following Barack Hussein Obama’s election as the 44th President of the United States of America.  That would have lifted your soul.  The sheer promise of America in those moments would have made your eyes well with tears.  He has been attacked and stymied at every turn, but, Mom, he is a transformational leader for our country and our generation.  When I see the political machinations going on, I have to dig deep and believe as you that what is true and right will prevail.

Wow, after all of this, I guess you’re not so fuzzy after all.  Even though the picture of you is getting fuzzy, you live on in my mind, my heart and my soul.

I really appreciate this talk.  And I appreciate your stopping by in my dreams.  When I am sick, could you remember to say, “my poor tsakele, if I could have it for you I would”?  That always helped.  Even your grandson needs to hear me say it “just like Grandma would’ve” when he is sick.  And I totally get it.  You never want your child to hurt even the teensiest bit.  Maybe that is why you hang around, to ease our pain.

Ok, I am not ready to dive in the with the “G-d thing” but I believe that your life force abides.  That’s as far as I am willing to go on the “everlasting” subject.  You are going to have to win me over on that one.  This is going to test your patience.  (I was never the easy child.)

I love you.  Now I am remembering that you did have a few cashmere turtlenecks, notwithstanding Dad’s preference otherwise, under your sweaters.  (We still wear them.)

Love,

Me

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The most universal of tragedies

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Life is a journey.  From birth to inescapable, uncheatable, death.  We accept this cycle of life and the orderly progression from youth to elderly to . . . nothingness or life everlasting, depending on one’s view and religion.

But what breaks a person’s (my) heart is knowing — however tangentially — parents who must bury their children, and grandparents unable to comprehend or comfort their own grieving children.  Since the 1950s, the death of a child breaks social and religious compacts, both having evolved from greater longevity and higher standards of living.  Not long ago, parents buried children in this country all too often.  Still, as a parent, I cannot imagine the pain and grief of those parents, just as I cannot imagine the pain and grief of parents of a girl recently found dead in her dorm room at college.

A life and future snuffed out and a family in tatters.  And, depending on the cause of death, other young lives guilty for not preventing the loss or complicit in causing the loss.  I look back on my college years and wonder how I survived the colossally stupid things I did.  I think about the way I cavalierly put my life and limb at risk in crazy, drunken escapades in the snowy mountains of New Hampshire. And, yet, I survived.  Why?

There is no rhyme or reason to who lives and who dies, who is born into riches and who is mired in poverty and who is blessed and who cursed.  Yes, biblical and epic struggles between humans and G-d are unleashed again in times of gut-wrenching sadness.

It is part of the human condition, I believe, to become inured to the death tolls in far-away Iraq and the famine in parts of far-away Africa, but be heart-sick at the death of a child barely considered “kin”.  Maybe because I am a parent.  Maybe because it didn’t happen in a faraway place or under circumstances outside my experiences.  Maybe because in the America of my hopes and dreams — and those of my parents and grandparents — things like this don’t happen.  The “shining beacon to the world” (if that is still true) is a little dimmed by each such senseless death.

There are many riffs on this — political, sociological, religious — but the fact remains that a young life is lost.  And that is just too much.  And, maybe we ought to think about every life this way.  But for right now, I am thinking locally not globally.

I only hope that the family of this young girl find some form of peace in their lifetimes.

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Privacy, please

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It is funny how people give away private information about their kids without even knowing it.

I was at a meeting and we were talking about kids and dating and a colleague from the midwest said that her early-teens son was very friendly with girls but hadn’t decided on a girlfriend.  Fine so far.  Then she added, “but he is always out with them.  If there are seven girls going to the movies, he’s the only guy.”  Ok, ok, ok.

The difference between a New Yorker and a midwesterner is that we New Yorkers would know the implications of that fact pattern and would leave it to the son — and to time — to unravel the mysteries therein.

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When my son is an Olympian

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On Sunday night, we gathered for the usual family dinner.  This time, we ate out, courtesy of Dad who stuck a crowbar in his wallet and sprung for the bill.  It was my (older) sister’s 50th birthday.  It was literally the least he could do.  I did the least I could do as well by merely showing up.  At least our son made a card.

Our son mentioned he would rather be watching the closing ceremonies of the Olympics.  Ok, he doesn’t get the tact award.  My cousin asked our son about what he saw and learned from watching the Olympics.  He said that every night, he and I went over the sports that were too dangerous for him to try.  My cousin asked what sport he could try and he answered, “curling”.  My cousin leaned over and asked me in a sidebar, “how long do these prohibitions last?” to which I responded quite emphatically, “until I am DEAD!!”

Bottom line, my son will never make the skeleton or the luge team, as if they are sports anyway.  They are kamikaze runs.  Have you noticed that the winter sports are REALLY dangerous?  Just ask any insurance agent whether some of these athletes can get life insurance.  Ok, maybe Lloyd’s of London will insure these athletes.  But then again, Lloyd’s insured the Argentine fleet against the British navy in that not-so-recent unpleasantness over the Falkland Islands.  (Remind me why those islands mattered enough to risk lives?)  Then again, Lloyd’s behavior seems quaint in the wake of the global economic collapse created by a few 25 year-old derivatives traders and short sellers.  But I digress.

Curling isn’t really an option, either.  It looks like “extreme housekeeping” with those hot iron and the brooms.  And my son, a chip off the ol’ block that he is, knows gornischt (nothing) about housekeeping.

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Family Weekend

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This weekend was family weekend.

Last night, POB made a huge tenderloin which didn’t seem so aggressively carnivore-centric, until her vegetarian sister (SOPOB) called to say she and her son were coming.  POB’s father (FOPOB) also came over, in part, because he liked the menu.  (Not only can you not fool all the people all of the time, but you can’t please them either.)

And to round out the alphabet of “OB”-centric initials, sister of blogger (SOB), husband of SOB (HOSOB) and father of blogger (FOB) also came.  HOSOB got a really short haircut and looked so adorable in that way that little boys do when they get their hair cut (except he is 54 or so, but still sooooooo adorable).  And not the way an older man looks cute and helpless when he puts on a hat with ear flaps (you know, the “look” that cuts one’s IQ in half).

Since having a child, it makes me happy when those whom I love have home-cooked meals. Of course, POB has to do the actual cooking — I just plate everything and set the table, except when I don’t, and then POB is overworked and I don’t deserve her.  But last night I wasn’t a slouch or sloth.  (Of course, I think I deserve a merit badge for good behavior, but I digress.)

My nephew didn’t like dinner and was honest about in that way that kids can be.  Everyone else was polite and HOSOB seemed to enjoy the carnivorous portion of the meal especially.  FOB seemed to enjoy the wine.   SOB seemed to enjoy leaving (she later reported having a really sound sleep — must have been vicarious dose of triptophan from all of the food HOSOB ate).  FOPOB was non-committal.  Our son and nephew enjoyed being together.

Today, another generation descended.  A cousin from the Catskills who studied and lived in China for 5 years came for brunch, along with her half-Dutch, half-Israeli boyfriend who went to school in Switzerland and whom she met in Shang-hai. He is now in the States, in New England. It is too confusing to figure out which of the many pairings of culture shock he is currently experiencing.  He is sweet and gentle notwithstanding his inherent Dutch directness and Israeli hubris.

Also along was a brother of this cousin who traveled the far distance from the Catskills to a suburban hamlet in Massachusetts.  He introduced us to his girlfriend.  This was big. His girlfriend was polite, sweet and quiet — i.e., not Jewish.  Hey, non-Jews have tamed our family, to wit: my sister-in-law and brother-in-law.  So, really, we are scared the non-Jews we love won’t marry into our family because we are so loud, and — hmmm, how shall we say — undiscriminating about our dinner/brunch table discussion topics.

So we were loud, especially my cousin (her boyfriend), and she didn’t seem unnerved by it, even when those cousins started talking about importance of sloping leaching fields in the separation of solid waste from non-solid waste.   Septic tanks and the related issues of sanitation are not approved topics of conversation at my table (even though these were favorite topics of their father z”l who was a wonderful, if controlling, human).  As I was trying to stop the story (we WERE eating), his sister piped in about the variations of “spicy stomach” she and her friends had in China. Ok, ok, ok. All of this after I lectured them (again) about the inappropriateness of pictures they put on Facebook.

My dear cousin (DCOB) — an elder of my generation — also joined us.  He is such a gentle soul.  He is very involved in eastern traditions, medicine and meditation.  He also has a tremendous collection of American folk music.  I know that you are thinking Asian monk living in the splendor of secluded monastery that has access to folk music and occasional WiFi.  Think again.  Think yin-yang.  How yang?  He is a criminal defense attorney living in a large apartment complex.  DCOB’s wide ranging interests and openness to new and different things was evolutionary in our family.  The next generations is more free to focus on their inner muses.

Still, after 3 hours, I called SOB, who prescribed M&M — meditation and medication.

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Snow Day

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It isn’t even snowing in NY yet and the public schools are shutting down for TOMORROW.  My son doesn’t go to public school but his school is nevertheless following the Board of Education’s lead.  Ok, why anyone would follow the Bd of Ed’s lead is beyond me.  In fact, he is in private school precisely because the Bd of Ed has no business running schools.

Since parents who are urban dwellers don’t get snow days (the subway always works), tomorrow will be a problem for child care.  POB (partner of blogger) and I have to figure this out.  Actually, all I want to do is stay in my jammies and watch cartoons with our son and eat ice cream and laze around, until about 4pm and THEN hand him off to a sports coach to tire him out.  Of course, we do have the trampoline that is now a fixture in his room until our downstairs neighbor complains.  Luckily, the guy is a midlevel associate at a huge law firm that probably makes him work around the clock.  Thank Goodness for modern-day, high-paying, low quality-of-life sweat shops.

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The Slug in Winter

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Our son has no interest in going outside in cold weather.  He would much rather watch movies and read books.  I don’t blame him, but POB (partner of blogger) and I get cabin fever.  Also, reading and watching movies is great until our son starts bouncing off the walls from lack of activity.  Boys need to run around.  Think golden retriever.  Lots of running, for running’s sake.

Last winter I bought one of those tiny exercise-trampolines — the kind that slides under our bed when not in use (and it is often not in use).  Realizing that our son is as strong-willed as she is (genetic code cannot be denied), POB brought out the trampoline and made our son jump up and down as he told us stories and whatever else came to his head.  POB and I took turns taking walks outside.  It wasn’t exactly “family” time, but it was the best we were going to get on a frigid winter day.  (I hope Groundhog Phil was wrong and we will have an early Spring.)

It reminded me about the commercial with the parents running the kids up and down hills and then putting them on treadmills just to get them tired out.  Life imitates art or art imitates life.

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