Tag Archives: Mothers

Lip Creep

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For the last few days I have been wearing lipstick because I finally accept my mother’s opinion that a little lipstick hides that washed-out look that comes with age.  And, lipstick is a good lip moisturizer.

Still, I have noticed that not only does the lipstick make my lips look bigger, it is actually making them bigger. 

Lip creep is the culprit.  Tiny wrinkles around the lips allow the lipstick to run into the crevices that the wrinkles create which, as I grow older, will become ravines. 

Now when I see an old woman with lipstick down to her chin, I will be more kind.  Or as kind as I can be.

For now, back to Chapstick for me.  Sorry, Mom.

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Mothers and Their Daughters and the Perilous Schlepic to New Jersey

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Today I went to a funeral in New Jersey for the mother of a friend.   After my mother died, my heart always breaks for a daughter losing a mother.  And when it is a dear friend, the pain is excruciating.  Because daughters and their mothers have bonds that, well, you have to be one to understand.

I arrive at the rental place early this morning and the rental car agent and a customer were comparing menopause symptoms.  After enduring about 5 minutes of this (which seemed more like an hour), I ask if I can get a special discount for being peri-menopausal.  I cannot.  I rent the car anyway.

The car is equipped with NeverLost GPS and, confident in the GPS system, I set out for New Jersey.  It is a 21 minute drive with no traffic, but it IS New Jersey and, as a New Yorker, I must allot an extra hour to navigate New Jersey.  The GPS voice and I are getting along fine.  Smoooooooth.

Then GPS lady tells me I have arrived at my destination and it is a jewelry shop.  Ok, this IS a Jewish event but it is not a wedding and this is not the registry, so this is clearly wrong. New Jersey has stumped the NeverLost lady.  She is now the NeverLost-but-all-bets-are-off-in-New-Jersey lady.  I make a mental note that, at that moment, in that parking lot, in our generation, man triumphed over machine.

I call the funeral home and a man, who must be taught to speak in that Musak voice, gives me directions that a native would understand.  But I am not a native.  I am a foreigner in a foreign state.  It is moving from the State of New Jersey to the State of Agitation.  So, I try to follow the instructions and I go round and round and see some lovely sites.  In fact, I passed the funeral home once without realizing it, on my way to getting lost for yet another time.

I pull into a shopping center and walk into a Whole Foods and inquire at the help counter.  A lovely woman named Sheila googles the address, then calls the funeral home, then tells me some landmarks, walks me out of the store and points to the exact road where I needed to go.  I hug Sheila.  I think she is surprised and thinks she might be starring in a commercial, but no, it is the explosive gratitude of a person who fears that she may never see her family again even though she is just a few miles from the George Washington Bridge.

I arrive at the funeral just in time.  My friend speaks poignantly of her mother and said so many things that resonate for me in my relationship with my mother.  I keep thinking about Joni Mitchell and her stupid, stinking, painted ponies going around on the carousel of time.

My friend talks about being grateful for what was and not being resentful of what will not be.  Very poignant and resonant.  My friend, in her mourning, teaches me a life lesson.  My absurd trip that started out as an effort to comfort a friend and turns out inspiring me.    I leave the funeral feeling upbeat about the life and legacy of my friend’s mother because of the love and humor that poured out in the eulogies.  Only neurotic Jews of a certain generation can use words like “great” to describe a funeral.  You’ll have to trust me that it isn’t ghoulish.  There is something so life-affirming about love and humor amid the tears and the sea of people taking time out of the usual grind to stand in remembrance of person or in support of those she left behind.

Life is eternal and love immortal and death is only a horizon (Carly Simon).

But it WAS schlepic.

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Imagine Peace

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Imagine peace.

That was Yoko Ono’s ad in the journal for last night’s benefit supporting New Yorkers Against Gun Violence (NYAGV).

My mother helped found the organization.  I remember vaguely that she would go up to Albany to lobby for tighter gun laws, coordinate the silent marches (the sea of empty shoes for those killed by gun violence) and generally be a nudge for the public welfare.  She was unassuming about her efforts for this cause.

I sat at the benefit and I was both stunned and brimming with pride at the flourishing my mother’s “seed” work, about which she was very quiet and very determined.  A young woman spoke about her work for the organization, doing outreach to youths at risk.  She spoke from the heart.  My eyes welled up.  I went over to her afterward to tell her how I was so taken with her words and her work.  I mentioned that my mother helped found this organization and she looked at my name tag, and then hugged me, saying “I have heard stories about your mother.”  Then a board member came over and said, “I knew your mother and we still talk about her and use her catch phrases.”

My mother has been dead for nearly seven years.  And she is remembered by both colleagues and people who never actually met her. A life well lived.

My sister is standard bearer for our generation.  Her wedding registry was composed of two charities, one of which was NYAGV.  When same-sex marriage is legal in NY, I am going to follow my mother’s and sister’s examples and make it part of my registry.

My mother’s legacy is a challenge to me to leave this world a better place than it was when I was born.  Not fix everything, just fix or enhance something.

Imagine peace. I hear her saying, “now go and make it happen”.  Mom is a tough lady in death as in life.  And an inspiration.  May she rest in peace.  Her memory is always a blessing.

Imagine peace.

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Taking Candy from Your Baby

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So, here I am at 7:25pm on Thursday after Halloween and I am eating candy that my son gathered on his trick-or-treating extravaganza.  I am feeling guilty, but only a little.  My son is 7 years old so it isn’t exactly like taking candy from a baby (she writes defiantly).

Halloween was its usual hell-ish experience.  As I have written before, I don’t like the holiday because of, among other things, the ghoulish costumes and behaviors, and I didn’t know what to do with the carved pumpkin except put it in the refrigerator where one would normally put ripened or cut fruit.  Leave it out for the bugs and the vermin?  Now, that’s not a plan for an urban dweller who likes to keep both nature’s jungle and the urban jungle at bay.

A major issue was my son’s costume.  He did not want to dress up and wanted a general pass on the occasion (that’s my son!!).  POB (partner of blogger) had long ago convinced me that Halloween was important (as were scooters and other toys of potential death and dismemberment) because we should stress social inclusion (but not assimilation or group think).

As you can tell POB is the intellectual in the family because I am still trying to apply these principles to daily life and parenting.  Realizing that I was still struggling, she recently restated her position in words I can understand: having two moms will be tough enough when he is a teenager, do you want to add the deficit of Halloween?  Because we are two women, our son’s societal acceptance depends on celebrating Halloween.   Ok, I get that thinking. Sort of.  My straight parents were dismissive of some societal norms and my college friends thought I was a Soviet spy.  It was lovingly meant as weird and kooky, I think.

So, Halloween it is.  It took some cajoling for our son to agree to a costume: “why can’t I be ME?” he asked. As part of the inclusion model, I did not say that a transitive verb takes a subjective pronoun and the question is “why can’t I be I?” which, while non-sensical, is grammatically correct.  But I digress.

He loves the Natural History Museum which was founded by early 20th century President Teddy Roosevelt.  So, he decided that he would be Teddy Roosevelt in the age of the Rough Riders.  We got a rough rider hat, bandana, round spectacles and I taught him to say, “bully, bully!!” just like Roosevelt.  But it was a little — how shall I say — cerebral for a 7 year-old.

Mindful of inclusion model, I tried to get him to think more commercially — work with me on the inclusion part here — and I asked, wouldn’t you like to be a Power Ranger or an X-Man?  Nah, not so much.  Teddy Roosevelt it was.

My parents would have beamed with pride and joy if I wanted to dress up as Eleanor Roosevelt for Halloween.  One generation later, I am begging my son to be an X-Man.  There is a PhD thesis in here somewhere but not now.

Needless to say, in No-Where-istan, there is no Halloween.

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Deja Vu All Over Again

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I saw my sister in the gym tonight.  Actually, I bumped into a trainer just outside the gym who told me my sister was working out.  I looked shocked; the trainer then looked puzzled.  You see, my sister has a stress fracture in her foot and should not be on an elliptical machine (and that is all she does at the gym when I am not around to coach her about weights).  I march upstairs in my “street clothes” to confront my sister.  I go to the heart of the matter and ask her whether she did, in fact, get her medical degree through a correspondence course with an off-shore medical school. In our family, that is the sum total of trash-talking.

After having laid down the gauntlet, my sister sputters some rationalizations, all of which I reject in an imperious way (after all I am a doctor, too — ok, a juris doctor).  I give her THE LOOK (Mom’s look of disappointment).  She doesn’t flinch.  She is not my sister.  My sister would have flinched.  I am confronted by the realization that my sister’s body is inhabited by an alien who is not scared of THE LOOK. THE LOOK proves the old adage, “if looks could kill . . . ” Well, not exactly, but THE LOOK with the eyes of my mother can really make a person plead for forgiveness. No sign of recognition by the alien inhabiting my sister.

Still, she knows about “our” Dad’s procedure tomorrow.  Clever aliens, these pod people.

So, I test this alien with other facts that my sister should know.  I mention some things I had written in my blog.  She is a little hazy about some of my latest entries.  But she does zero in on some with incredible accuracy.  I am not convinced yet but I leave to regroup and give the alien a false sense that she fooled the sister of her host body.  I come back up and flash an old picture of my parents and my sister at camp visiting day, circa 1969.  The alien looks at the picture, sighs and hugs me.

Maybe my sister is inhabited by an alien, but it is a really endearing alien.  Maybe the alien can heal her stress fracture.  Maybe the alien can help with my sagging neck.  After all, aliens have special powers that can conquer humanity, or at least that is true in the movies.

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School days

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Today was our parent-teacher conference.  Our son is blossoming at his new school.  The feedback is that, although he has some areas that require work, he is smart, well-liked and presents as a kind, warm-hearted kid. (Note to self: confirm we are really talking about the same child.)  That is great news.

After the conference, we wait because he wants to come out and greet us.  He runs into our arms and then runs away because he is in the middle of something he finds fun. (Note to self: wait until later to cry over how independent he is.)

After last year’s terrible experience in a large public school, my son who needs some extra attention, is finding his place in his new school.  And we, his moms, are slowly shedding the stress of last year and enjoying the re-kindled love of school and learning.  (Note to self: approach networks about a made-for-TV movie.)

It is true that a parent is only as happy as his/her saddest child.  Today, my son is happy.  And if my son is happy, then the economy can stink (but not for much longer).  Life is good today.

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Home Sick

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My son complained of a sore throat and running nose this morning, enough so that my partner (POB — partner of blogger), who usually takes no prisoners, relented and let him stay home.  She had meetings and I could telecommute, so I am staying home with him.

He wanted to watch cartoons, especially a particular one that combines his favorites — dinosaurs and trains.  I told him no because being home sick is different than a vacation day.  Now, he is feeling better and is bored and misses his friends at school.  My child is whining, angry and saying hurtful things out of frustration.  (I am not really sure he was sick in the first place.)

The usual child sturm und drang, right?  No, not for our child.

This is a breakthrough for him to feel included, to say he misses his friends, to prefer to leave his toys behind and engage in a group activity, ALL at school.  This is a great, great day in our lives.

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Yom Kippur

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First, to everyone, Jewish and non-Jewish, I wish you happiness, health and prosperity in the year 5770 (or 2009-10).

With the Yom Kippur fast came a blogging fast.  Both fasts have ended.

This Yom Kippur had bloggable moments, some profound and others, well, let’s just say that I have already started the list of sins for next year’s atonement:

Muslim-Jewish Greetings. A Muslim cab driver wished us health and happiness in our new year.  And I told him that we hope that he had had a blessed Ramadan with his family.  There is an advantage to living in NY.  There are no territorial, ideological or historical impediments to honoring other traditions and religions.  (We are cramped in this City, but for purely capitalist reasons.) I am a conscientious objector when it comes to religion (but not tradition), but I see G-d in these ordinary exchanges between individuals of different backgrounds.  These seemingly mundane holiday greetings have transformative power, precisely because they were between Muslim and Jew.

Gay, Muslim and Palestinian. There was a gay Palestinian Muslim at our Yom Kippur services as a guest of our synagogue (we flew some GLBT Israelis here after the attack on a gay center in Israel, so they can feel a part of a huge community of supporters).  Now, that is bizarre on so many levels.  But closeness to community, to spirituality comes with the setting, not the liturgy.  And, I know, I feel more at home in a mosque than in a church.  The lack of iconography (i.e., no depictions of suffering Jews) and the Sephardic melodies are familiar to me.  Spirituality doesn’t, I believe, require belief in a deity, or a particular theology; rather, a sense of essential goodness in (most) people who are inextricably tied one to another because of our inherent humanity.

A River Runs Through It. The rabbi reprised her Rosh Ha-Shanah theme of the colors of the river.  It reminds me of when I tell a joke (or make what I think is a witty comment) and no one laughs.  I assume that no one heard.  I have to remember that everyone heard but no one thought it funny.  So, the rabbi didn’t get that no one could follow her metaphor at Rosh Ha-Shanah, let alone ten days later when people are hungry and have caffeine and nicotine withdrawal.  My head was pounding and all I heard was the light of the river, river, river, and whether we saw the light or not and whether we followed the changing light of the river, river, river.  And I thought, I will wait until the light of the river is a major motion picture but please get to the part where the Shofar is blown and the fasting is over and the pounding in my head stops.  The river, river, river made me dizzy, dizzy, dizzy, AGAIN.  Torture comes in many shapes and size and pretexts.

Our Child, Our Oracle. Ok, so here is the best part of the whole Yom Kippur.  Our son was prone to melt-downs this holiday season.  Maybe it was his bow-tie or his blazer that caused a karmatic imbalance (although he was such a chick magnetic and he was in Heaven being kissed and adored by women old and young). So, we had to leave for a while (to relieve everyone from having to hear the meltdown) but PRECISELY because we wanted to leave, our son then wanted to stay.  My partner asked him to rate his behavior in the children’s service.

Our 7 year-old responded, “Mommy, I was a complete ass.”

Parenting manuals don’t teach you how not to laugh and how not to applaud the razor-sharp analysis even though your child used “bad words”.

Choking back laughter and “bravos” for spot-on analysis, we told him those were not words that we used and his choice of language was not ok.  His response:

“Mommy, I don’t think I am being brought up well.  In good homes, children don’t say such words.”

Ok ok ok ok ok ok, it is Yom Kippur, and we are tired, cranky, hungry and our precocious child has laid down the gauntlet.  My partner says something that adjourns the conversation, so that we can prepare for battle or, more precisely, litigation, with our 7 year-old. I have called in reinforcements.

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Dear Mom

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It’s almost Yom Kippur and I have that rage inside me again.  I am supposed to seek forgiveness and I am still waiting for an apology from On High for making you suffer and taking you away.  Just an acknowledgment of a “Heavenly oops” would work. 

Two of my friends are dealing with the terminal illnesses of their mothers.  I just try to offer my ear because, as you know, it is all of jumble of good, bad, generous and selfish emotions.

The one thing that stays with me always is your last day.  “Your girls” knew from the change in your breathing — the increasingly shallower breaths and the elongation of your breathing rhythms — that the end was near. 

Breathe, two, three, four, five.  Breathe, two, three, four, five.

Breathe, two, three, four, five.  Breathe, two, three, four, five.

Breathe, two, three, four, five, six (phew).  Breathe, two, three, four, five, six.

I even went to the medical supply store to get a suction machine to suction out the mucous because it sounded like you were choking and couldn’t clear your throat (I later learned that is known as the death rattle).

Breathe, two, three, four, five, six.  Breathe, two, three, four, five, six.

At the end, Dad was holding you in his arms and your children were touching your hands and your legs and we watched and we listened. Your breaths were even more shallow and the length between them got even longer.  We stayed with the rhythm and we were breathing with you. 

Breathe, two, three, four, five, six, seven (phew).  Breathe, two, three, four, five, six, seven.
Breathe, two, three, four, five, six, seven.  Breathe, two, three, four, five, six, seven.
Breathe, two, three, four, five, six, seven.  Breathe, two, three, four, five, six. . . .

And then you didn’t take the next breath and you were gone.

There was an eternity in that time between the last breath and the next one you didn’t take. 

In that eternity was the difference between life and death.  In that eternity was the secret of what makes a person alive.  What was that infinitessimal change that made the difference between life and death? 

I am not religious (as you know) but I really believe that we helped put your soul on the wings of angels.  And I am glad.  And then I think: angels, shmangels.  I just miss my mom. AND I am waiting for that apology.

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It is a beautiful morning in a house of mirth

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Mornings are always hectic in our house. But not for me (note to self: be grateful; gloating could get you in trouble).

My partner (POB) is an early riser. My son has to be, too, since he needs to get to school on time. I hear the noise, confusion and (mostly) gentle prodding of our son to get ready. I am still lying in bed with a pillow over my head. Then in barrels our son, ready for some rough-housing in the morning (which he quaintly calls cuddling — even when we play two crashing trains). I rise to the occasion and then fall back in my bed when he scampers off to school.   Off they go to school via bus or subway — more than I could ever manage.

For the first week of school, POB was away on business and our son was anxious about his new school. The cajoling and prodding took a long time. Plus, POB told me that we had to be there a whole 15 minutes earlier than necessary — a lifetime in the morning. Hmmmmm. She now feigns innocence as if I conjured this up out of the air. Obviously, since I was barely compos mentis at these early hours, we took cabs to school.

The minute POB returned from her trip, our son gave me up but said helpfully, “We were running late.” Thanks for the cover, bud.  I appreciate your sticking by me as you rat me out. Note to self: have his aunt, “the vault”, teach him some pointers about secrets.

So, POB is strong, fearless and awake enough to take public transportation.  Our family fisc thanks her.

The good news is that she is adaptive to any situation.

This morning I get an email from POB that recognizes and affirms me in all my frailties and is also practical:

“[Our son] had to use the bathroom on the way to school [NOTE: he never wants to go before he leaves so we get into this problem] so we ducked into McDonalds which took FOREVER so I channeled my inner [me, the blogger] and we took a cab. We made it just in time – and [our son] was truly apologetic so we vowed to launch the Morning Team to better figure this out.”   [Note to self:  keep your head down and don’t make eye contact, lest you are picked for the team.]

An episode in the morning of a house of mirth.

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