Tag Archives: children

Conversations with my father

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DOB (father of blogger) came over for dinner. Just DOB.  No others to redirect the conversation when it, as it invariably does, turns to scatological matters.  And with my having an endoscopy on Friday, we would need the conversational fortitude of all family members to keep the subject, shall we say, appetitive.

I became a little desperate when I realized that the “regulars” for Sunday dinner were unavailable and it was just DOB and the three of us:  POB (partner of blogger), TLP (our son, the little prince) and me.

The excuses:

  • SOB (sister of blogger) was working this weekend at the hospital,
  • therefore, HOSOB (husband of SOB) had to stay home to feed SOB, and
  • Cousin Gentle and CB (Cousin Birder) were separately out of town.

All reasonable excuses; however, in the aggregate, totally unacceptable.

And POB, always a little afraid of what someone from my side of the family might say, stays in the kitchen and cooks.  She can hear everything and I can tell her displeasure by the increased numbers of needlessly dirty pots and pans that are left for me to clean.  Oooops. I digress.

For the record, DOB is a perfectly lovely man and he was a wonderful father. Now, let’s get to it.

He asked how I was feeling after the endoscopy.  Not waiting for an answer, he told me how lucky I was not to have a colonoscopy.  He has had over ten.  I mentioned that I am glad that he no longer has them (he is near 91) because I understand that the preparation for a colonoscopy is rough.  He started discussing all the things that could go wrong in the procedure, like a puncture of the bowel or whatever (at this point, I am not listening because I am deciding whether or not to lunge out of the window).

POB walks in because she felt an intervention was necessary.  She almost texted SOB at the hospital to rush over to run a Code Green (as in POB was turning green from the conversation) and save us from ourselves.  POB, G-d bless her, tried.  And failed.

DOB paused politely while POB tried to maneuver us away toward more common pre-dinner conversation.

Then DOB started to tell me that he thinks he needs a colonoscopy because — I tried to stop him there.  I don’t need the details. But his hearing isn’t so good, so he didn’t hear me plead for him to stop. Instead he alluded to discomfort, waiting for me to ask for more information.  I didn’t ask because if he tells me, I will surely lose my mind. He made more allusions but I wouldn’t take the bait.  This is a battle for my sanity.  If DOB realized the stakes involved, he wouldn’t push it (he is after all a lovely man and good father).  He would have walked into the kitchen and grossed out POB.

He moved on to the procedure he might have.  Sanity preserved — for now.

Of course, he said that if the doctors found anything, that given his age, he wouldn’t want any invasive treatment. Ok, ok, ok, ok.  You want to have a risky procedure at your age just as an information gathering exercise?  And torture your daughters, who will go with you and take care of you afterwards?

In my head, I am screaming, “SO, WHY ARE WE HAVING THIS CONVERSATION AND WHY DO I KNOW DETAILS ABOUT BOWEL MOVEMENTS THAT I NEVER, EVER, NEEDED TO KNOW??”

Just then, SOB called, as if she knew I was about to lose my mind.

“So how’s it going over there?” she asked.  I imagine that her head was already in her hands as she was awaiting my answer.

“Dad’s having some elimination issues.”

“OOOOooooh.  I am really sorry I couldn’t be there tonight.“

SOB knows my sanity is on the line and she is my protector.  But there are sick patients in ICU.  There are just crazy people in my home.

“Dinner!!!” POB calls.  My salvation.

 


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A Day at the Refuge

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Jamaica Bay Wildlife Refuge is a world away from New York City. Imagine a place so quiet that you can hear the bird calls and Canada geese walk right past you as calmly as if you belonged.

 

Except the refuge is actually IN New York City (see faint red arrow pointing to Empire State Building).

Seemed like another world, except for this sign:

 

But, then again, in this country, that sign could be anywhere.  But in a wildlife refuge?  Really?

Yesterday, POB (partner of blogger), TLP (our son, the little prince), SOB (sister of blogger), HOSOB (husband of SOB), DOB (Dad of blogger) and CB (newly rediscovered cousin who is a birder) had an outing there.  TLP had binoculars, HOSOB and CB had those AND these crazy telescopes on tripods.

I thought we would be stared at for all the bird nerd equipment. I was soooo wrong. People there had all manner of paraphernalia to observe birds. And these people are serious. No jocularity allowed. Apparently, lawyers who are new to bird-nerding are the most opinionated (and most often wrong). In fact, we came upon a heated discussion among the nerdiest of the nerds about the kind of tern that was on the beach ahead.  CB being a low-key but über-knowledgeable nerd tried to help and consulted the various field guides handed to him. It was getting so heated that we had to leave as did the neophyte lawyer nerder who had made a “wrong tern” identification (as it were). He stomped off, taking a “left tern” and we opted to take a “right tern”.  Okayyyyy, no more tern jokes.

Actually, we did see some extraordinary things through the nerd scopes.

But then when the boys — HOSOB, CB and TLP — started debating whether a bird was a mature, immature or juvenile sub-species of something (I know two birds; pigeon and yellow belly sap sucker, the latter may be a made-up cartoon bird), the rest of us needed to rest.

Needless to say, the mature females — SOB, POB and me — along with the eldest male — DOB — enjoyed a lovely walk around the quiet, calm sanctuary. (Ok, except for the near altercation I mentioned.)

A terrific day for nerd and non-nerd alike.

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Kids are amazing

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I come home and TLP (our son, the little prince) cries out:

“E-mom, E-mom, look at my awesome new summer stripey pajamas!!  Don’t I look handsome?“

[Note to self:  I might think he is the son of G-d, like any good Jewish mother, but I need to pretend that he isn’t.]

He looks adorable, but the pajamas made me think of Steve McQueen in the movie, “Papillon”.

I said, “you look like a prisoner on Devil’s Island!!!”

And TLP responded, “that’s what I said to Mommy [POB (partner of blogger)]!!!!“

“How do you know about Devil’s Island?”

“It was in something I read about penal colonies in Africa.“

“There is such a book and you read it?”

“Well, a lot of famous and important people like Nelson Mandela were imprisoned in penal colonies.“

“That was Robben Island.”

“It was just an example.  I could look it up for you.” I was amazed by his knowledge, even though he seemed to know an ooky amount about penal colonies.

“Thanks, buddy, I’m good.”

“Ok, wanna play?“

After we played some, I looked up Papillon, the movie, and after seeing a clip — the Internet can be awesome — it turns out that Steve McQueen wasn’t wearing a striped prison outfit after all.

So where did we both get that image of prisoners in striped pajama-like clothes in penal colonies.  (Must be another Hollywood flick, because I don’t think TLP has seen Holocaust footage.)

Anyway, as you can see, in order to hold my own with my not-even 9 year-old, I am going to need some serious intellectual reinforcements.  Paging Dr. Einstein?

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Twas the day before Passover, and all through the house. . .

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It is really the day before the eve of the holiday (because we celebrate holidays from sunset to sunset) but every creature was stirring. Heck, 15 people are coming over.

POB (partner of blogger) made a vat of chicken soup.  She rendered chicken fat which, if you’ve done it, you know that is a disgusting necessity for light, floating matzo balls.  The whole house smells like a barn.  And while we are talking about matzo balls, I need to note for the record that the Blogger family tradition is that matzo balls sink, not float.  Their intended purpose — so say those in my tribe — is to line your stomach for the coming week of no bread and also give you a reason to complain about intestinal issues, e.g., (in a Yiddish accent) “I ate such a heavy matzo ball that it is cement in my stomach, and boy-oh-boy, have I got troubles getting anything out!!”.  However unpleasant, it is my inheritance.

But MOPOB (mother of POB), may she rest in peace, made floating matzo balls.  And since Passover is all about MOPOB (my mother’s memory is invoked on Thanksgiving), we “sinkers” just sigh and “boing” the matzo balls with our figures, wondering if, with a little push, they might sink.  No such luck these past few years.  So part of our Passover narrative (“and you shall tell your children on that day . . . “) also includes the sinker-floater dichotomy, because as surely as there were Israelites on the shore of the Red Sea, they were also arguing about whose matzo was better.  So, it is just in keeping with the tradition.  So I shall tell my child that “on that day” there were no floaters in the land of Egypt.  Ok, that isn’t fair because there weren’t sinkers either.  There wasn’t matzo ball soup.  But history is written by the conquerors and vanquished loud-mouths.  I can live with being in the latter category on the matzo ball issue.

Those of you who aren’t Jewish may not appreciate that importance of this.  This is a divide that can splinter families.  We are talking about our grandmothers’ and great grandmothers’ recipes.  We are talking about the overbearing, tyrannical beings that, upon death, miraculously turned into angels in everyone’s memories.  We are talking about tradition.  [Start singing from Fiddler on the Roof.]  This is big.

But MOPOB’s traditions must prevail.  She was terminally ill at our first Seder in our home in 2006.  She pronounced herself satisfied with the celebration — a high compliment and tantamount to a blessing on our home and us — and then, within 36 hours was hospitalized and soon died.  You can’t mess with that heavy trip.

I needed chairs and an extra table from my Dad.   We had lunch and then went down to the storage bins in his apartment building.  Dad is looking great these days, although slower since his fall two weeks ago.  Still he grabbed the hand truck at the entrance to this scary storage room in the bowels of his apartment building.  Only one light worked.  He and I were feeling around in the dark for his folding table and chairs.  We found them and managed not to fall or otherwise hurt either of us.  Every year we go through this ritual and I make a note to self to remind the doorman about the lighting.  Every year, Dad and I forget.  Every year, we grope in the dark until we find what we need.  So far, it has worked for us.  Tradition.

Tradition.

Tradition.

 

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Life as seen by Blogger, Part 2

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My Dad is healing from his fight with a New York City sidewalk.  Thank G-d, he was able to get up from his fall.

Of course, as the family archivist, I had to take pictures throughout the course of the healing process.  Dad still looks horrible, but at least his right eye is open and there is but a hairline fracture above his eye.

He came to the office on Wednesday and people were aghast (he comes for coffee at least once a week, and the staff has adopted him as a favorite visitor to the firm).  He looked like he had been in the fight of his life.  And to some degree, a fight with a cement sidewalk at his age is the fight of his life.  My father thanked everyone for their concern and, added as he stood up straight with his shoulders back, “you should have seen the other guy!!”

My Dad and TLP (the little prince) have a very special relationship.  So, Dad was very concerned that we prepare TLP for the discoloration and bruising on Dad’s face.  “I don’t want to scare him,” Dad admonished.  And Dad preferred that we have Sunday brunch at his house instead of Sunday night dinner at ours.  He just doesn’t like the attention from strangers that his injuries draw.

So, POB (partner of blogger) and I individually explained to TLP that Grandpa had a terrible fall and that he was ok, even though the bruising and swelling were hard to look at.  TLP pronounced himself ready to handle it.  And he understood that Sunday night dinner — which is more important to TLP than he will let on  — needed to be re-scheduled.

TLP hugged Grandpa and said, “it isn’t so bad!”  TLP was totally non-plussed about the bruising and swelling that is unbearable to me as Dad’s daughter.

As we sat down to brunch at Dad’s house today, TLP offered the toast, “to a fast recovery so you don’t miss Sunday night dinner next week!”

TLP loves and needs Dad and Dad loves and needs TLP.  And I thought, in that moment, POB and I have — so far — done the right things to bring together the generations of our family through love.  I don’t think we did anything other than to provide a forum for TLP and Dad to bond.  I am grateful to be the conduit.  It will enrich TLP’s life and extend Dad’s years.

And that is a blessing for all of us.

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The New Me (In the Test, Day 7-ish)

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It is hard to describe how I feel as I watch the events unfold around the world, but let me try:

say you are in a bath (reading a book, sipping red wine in the hypothetical awesomely fabulous Manhattan apartment) and you pull the stopper to let the water drain.  At that exact second, you hear a big BANG from somewhere.  So what do you do?  You put the stopper back in the drain and shiver a little.

Powerless and with shivers of fear.  (FYI:  I don’t live in the hypothetical fabulous apartment, I am drinking an unfortunate Sauvignon Blanc (I don’t even like white wine) and I have no time to expand my intellectual acumen (maybe when my son is 10).)

In truth, I never thought anything was out of my control until TLP (the little prince) was born.  Now, I worry about the world after I am dead because (I hope) he (and his children) will still be alive. THAT makes what we do now even more important.  Because we all know that the harvest reaped in two generations will be directly related to the seeds we sow now.

My mom always believed that if you can’t change the big things, then start with the little things, but you must always, always, strive to repair the world (tikkun olam) — תיקון עולם

Here is the difference between Mom and me.  Mom just did things.  I, first, need a whole new outfit and work-out regimen.

Did you think I could stay so serious and not deflect my fears, hopes and dreams by lapsing into (sometimes, forced) humor?  DO YOU KNOW ME?

Sooo, deflectors are engaged.

One has to have strength to repair the world, no?

Ok, so let’s critique my old gym regimen, also known as, NP2 — “no pain, no pain”:

  • 3 times a week, get on the stationary bike for 30 minutes, but quit after 25 minutes.  Don’t even break a sweat.
  • Think about doing sit-ups. Hyper-ventilate about the anxiety of dealing with my expanding midriff. Suck in my stomach and do something else.
  • Do push-ups because I actually can do them.  And not the girl-y ones, either.
  • Do back muscle exercises because I don’t want to stoop too much in my dotage.
  • Talk to some people, less now that some gym friends have moved to other locations.
  • Notice the time and realize I have to get home.

There was a time when I could suck in my tummy, arch my back a little and my stomach would be flat and my breasts “perky”.  One cannot leave on memories of prior glory.  Starting tomorrow (because I am drinking wine and might hurt myself if I tried it out now):

My new, Spring, regimen, also known as SPB2 — “some pain, but buff”:

  • Buy some new outfits for my new gym state of mind.
  • Do Michelle Obama arm exercises because we all deserve to look like we could go sleeveless on national TV.
  • Do something cardio for 40 minutes. And actually break a “glow” but no sweat because I am becoming more genteel (and eccentric) as I age.
  • Stop watching the TV because next year Oxford English Dictionary will declare “pundit” a synonym of “idiot” and people who watch pundits “vidiots”.

I promise, Mom, in the midst of my self-absorption, I won’t forget about tikkun olam.  For your grandson and your great grandchildren.  For everyone’s children and grandchildren.

תיקון עולם

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An Olympic Win

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Last night, POB (partner of blogger) and I had our usual Wednesday night date.  POB brought me flowers because I had been feeling down about the world and work (that is, prior to my vow of one month of cheerfulness).

When we got home, TLP (our son, the little prince) was still awake.  He had called each of us earlier in the day to tell us that his team won the finals in his sports group, he scored the winning run and everyone on his team got a medal. 

We rushed into his room, humming the Olympic anthem, as I handed him the flowers and POB found the medal and put it around his neck.  Then I announced, “Please stand for the national anthem.”  So, POB and I stood, with our hands over our hearts, singing (croaking, in my case) the Star Spangled Banner, as TLP looked up from his bed — somewhat shocked and maybe even horrified — with a bouquet of flowers on his chest, hand over his heart and his medal around his neck. 

When we finished, I asked, “hey, buddy, how was THAT?”  I, of course, was thinking we were being totally awesome parents.

“Um, great, E-mom, but I was really hoping for a Star Wars action figure.“

I am still glad I shared my flowers.

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The Test

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COB (colleague of blogger) is tired of my doom and gloom. (Really?  I thought it part of my magnetic personality. . . .)

And that, in and of itself, is shocking, since COB was discussing that the end of the world could occur on December 21, 2012.  Something about the Mayan calendar, Nostradamus and planetary alignments. Not that COB BELIEVES it, or anything.  But he was just putting it out there.

Probably to stack the odds before he dared me to be hopeful and cheerful for one month.  ONE MONTH.

In case you didn’t read carefully enough, I was challenged to be hopeful and cheerful for one month.  (COB is a poker player and probably has side bets on whether I will sink into despair in 5 minutes, 10 minutes or 2 weeks.)

I think it is funny that people are talking about the end of the world being in 21 months away, since Japan lies devastated (and its nuclear rods laid bare) by an earthquake and then tsunami, Libya is in civil war, Bahrain and Yemen are in chaos, the Ivory Coast is a bloodbath, we are in two wars, our deficit is out of control, the recession hasn’t ended for most Americans and we have a dysfunctional Congress, and on and on and on.  Sounds like the end of days now.

BUT, I digress, comme d’habitude.

Back to sweetness and light and kumbaya.   A dare is a dare and I have my pride.  So, forget the images of Hiroshima and Nagasaki.  Forget images of breadlines during the Depression.  Forget the daily carnage for an acre or two of oil fields.  I am going to be happy, hopeful and cheery, Gosh darn it.

So, here is what I did today to make good on the dare:

  • When I was at the gym, I didn’t tell the stinky man that he was curling my nose hairs, as we took turns on the same machine.
  • I made sure that all elderly, infirm or pregnant people on the bus had seats.  (Yes, I know I am too pampered to hang with humanity, but the recession hasn’t ended.)
  • I swore to POB (partner of blogger) that I would take a time-out from the 24-hours news REcycle, where the object is to scare us more than to provide information.  (Note to self:  If Wolf Blitzer or Anderson Cooper is at the nuclear power plant in Japan, it can’t be releasing THAT much radiation.)
  • I kissed and hugged my son, as I asked G-d (and whomever else with power over these things) to protect him from the chaos.

Not bad for my first few hours of Blogger-High-On-Happiness.

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Life is a Cabaret, my son, but don’t learn the lyrics

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TLP (our son, the little prince) loves Louis Armstrong and Ella Fitzgerald.  That’s pretty awesome since he is 8.5 years old.  The problem is that his two favorite songs are Mack the Knife and Cabaret because of the tunes and the instrumentals.  When we looked up the lyrics, it was a little ooky.

First, Mack the Knife doesn’t sound like it will be about wine and roses.  Mack the Knife is based on the dashing highwayman Macheath in John Gay’s The Beggar’s Opera.  Murder and blood.  And Cabaret involves a prostitute who charges by the hour.

And now my son wants us to purchase the swimsuit edition of Sports Illustrated.  I draw the line there — he is too young.  But why the heck I am letting him listen to songs about violence and prostitution? 

There is a bright line here, somewhere.

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The Travel Gods Must be Crazy

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The travel gods are mercurial sorts.  I should have made a few sacrifices at the Pantheon before we left.

So we arrive at the airport with plenty of time to spare, which came in handy because the security people needed to go through all of our luggage and examine POB’s (partner’s of blogger) cosmetics.   We looked like terrorists, indeed.

We arrived at the gate with an hour to spare, because we really wanted to get home and because TLP (our son, the little prince) loves watching planes take off and land.  At the gate, we found out that the flight was delayed for 2 hours.  No explanation.  Really?  Really?  Wasn’t the ride to Rome punishment enough?  No, apparently.  It was two hours delayed but we weren’t boarding for FOUR hours.  La dolce vita it seems to apply to airports and air traffic.  Everyone takes a midday break.

Still it is too early to call DOB (Dad of blogger) to let him know we are late.  He worries until we call that we have touched down safely.  We always thought that it was Mom who obsessed about our safety.  It turns out, Dad was right there with her, worrying. (I called him as soon as we were on the cab line at the airport and he was so happy.)

There were 65 Catholic school girls on our flight.  Hazard of going to Rome, I guess.  They all had to board together and have all of their documents together.  Ok that would have been comical if we weren’t tired of waiting to get home.  Also seeing Brother Joseph, in his robe and rope tie regalia, lose his temper a little.  I did notice his saying the rosary a lot — although, being Jewish, I really have no idea what he was doing but I can venture a guess.

As we passed through the gate attendant, a woman said to me, “I have to check your bag.”

I responded, “It is carry-on.”

“I don’t understand what you say, but I MUST check your bag.”

“We are NOT checking luggage!” I say.  I am pissed.  We have been waiting too long and I am going to throw on the floor anyone’s stuff that is in our overhead bins.

After this Abbott and Costello stand-off, someone comes over and says “for security reasons, she must check.  random check.”

OOOoooooooooooooooh.  I was pleasant and accommodating after that, but she really gave me a thorough pat-down, although as I am told not as enhanced as in the US.  Although she did really get high up on the inside of my legs.  About the only thing she didn’t do was feel my breasts.

We had the seats at the back of the plane.  Row 42.  (Damn, this recession.)  Any further back, we would be sitting in the flight attendants’ laps.  At least, TLP had easy access to the bathrooms.  AND, we were not in the middle of the 65 school girls, although I had to tell one to stop taking pictures of another passenger as he slept.  She kept trying to talk to him and he kept in his ear phones.  She didn’t take a hint.  A future stalker.  The whole experience felt like high school recess.

After 10 hours on the plane (way too long) we winded our way to immigration.  We came to the officer together.  I said we are coming together, because we are a family.

“You are a family?”  He asked.

“Yes.”

“Who are the parents?”  So much for the laws of certain states recognizing gay unions and adoption.

“We are,” POB and I said together.

“Who is the child?”

We both point to TLP. (The only one it could be.)

The officer says, “Are these your parents?”

TLP nodded.   He looked at us again.  Seconds seemed like minutes.

“Welcome home.”

Phew.  We were so tired that I feared that neither POB or I would have the coping mechanisms to deal with this situation had it gone differently.

We got up at 7am (Rome time) and it was 2am the next day (Rome time) by the time we got home. Fresh Direct was waiting because POB placed the order from Rome so we would have food.  For once I wish she weren’t so efficient and forward-looking.

TLP was fabulous but he did say more than once that he is never flying again.

Life is good when you go to sleep in your own bed.

The trip was fabulous.  Click this link for the travel company.  I just hope you all have better air travel karma.

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