Movin' On Up....

As my youngest child prepares to move into her first "real world" apartment and pay her own rent, I am confused. Even more confused than usual.

With a strange mix of excitement, relief, and melancholy on all sides, she will be moving out of my 87 year old mother's Brooklyn apartment, my childhood digs. For a couple of months, she has walked the same streets I used to walk, stood on the same dusty subway platforms, arrived home late at night through the same deserted lobby while my mother, her grandmother, lay half awake, waiting. In the mornings, she sips coffee at the same tiny round kitchen table where my brother and I used to sit across from each other reading the backs of our favorite cereal boxes, with an occasional break to launch a gratuitous insult.

For two brief months, we have all had at least one foot firmly planted somewhere familiar, with the other testing new waters. My mother was enjoying the rare treat of seeing one of her grandchildren on a daily basis, and relearning how to walk the fine line between parenting a child and enjoying the company of a fellow adult. She was struggling to balance the joy of the closeness with the annoyance at the intrusion. My daughter, at once appreciative and put upon, endured her own juggle. I worried from afar, tempted to intervene and micromanage with advice and assurances, knowing that silence was my best option. My mother marveled, regularly, at how wonderful and responsible her youngest granddaughter is, as if it had happened suddenly, certainly in spite of my parenting.

Next weekend, we all start a new chapter. For my daughter, it will be the official launch, different from the somewhat illusory independence she enjoyed at college. For my mother, it will be a return, yet again, to the comfort of life on her own terms, the rigid and unimpeded schedule she has relied upon for so long. As relieved as she is, her space will feel empty, at least for a while. For me, I will adjust to what it feels like not be anticipating the return of a child. It is time, I think, to finally get rid of the bulky bags of tee shirts and old clothes I have stubbornly clung to as reminders of their childhoods. It is time, I think, to clear out the closets and just tuck the memories away where they don't take up so much space.

A friend told me, recently, that she and her husband cracked open a special bottle of wine to celebrate a job well done when their last child went off the payroll. Three children, well-raised, well-educated, ready to make their mark. I, too, might crack open a special bottle of wine (I hardly need an excuse), but I like to think that though my job description might change, my work is never done.

Limping Back an Awkward Truth: My Story

One evening, long ago, my husband and I hosted a party at our home for some summer associates at his law firm. I spent a good deal of time trying to figure out why one of the young women looked so familiar, until I finally had my "eureka" moment, and shared it with her. I won't go into the details, but it involved my prefacing my revelation by saying something really nasty about her doppelganger -- and being very specific about why I knew her -- only to find out that this young woman indeed had a twin, one who would have been exactly where I said she was when I knew her.

My misstep (and I'm being generous here) was horrifying enough, to me, my husband, and the smattering of others who overheard the conversation. My "walk back," which was instantaneous and seemed brilliant to me, at the time, was worse. "Oh yes, I knew her, but that's not who I was thinking about." Color drained from faces, eyes popped. One friend burst out laughing.

I felt vindicated, years later, when I found out the twin was just as bad as the one I had known, and was eventually fired. Vindicated, that is, about my assessment. As to my "walk back," I remain horrified -- even if it is kind of funny. A lot funnier, say, than treason. I have tried, since then, to to be more truthful, certainly to not assume people are that stupid. I've had some slip-ups, of course, but it's never worked out well.

There are lots of bad things to say about 45's, um, Helsinki "misstep," which I view as both unsurprising and, like all his absurdities, immune to consequences. So, too, is his "walk back." But what is truly telling about his "walk back" is his utter disdain and lack of respect for his audience which, I assume, is Republican lawmakers. And, truth be told, they have earned it.

I don't get what motivates them, other than this mystical "base" that supposedly justifies condoning repeated departures from democratic norms. For this, they are willing to accept something as absurd as the no, the person I thought looked just like you was a person other than your identical twin who happened to be someone I knew. Whether it's stupidity or abject whorishness remains to be seen. Maybe, one day, there will be a price to pay.

Whistlin' About Dixie Cups

Central Park, NYC, circa summer 2018

Our Good Humor ice cream man's name was Smitty. I remember thinking what an odd name that was, until my mom told me his last name must be Smith. Ahh. So no first name at all then, which seemed even odder. I wasn't the sharpest tool in the shed.

Every summer evening, Smitty showed up, in his white pants and white shirt and white truck, to serve us our chocolate eclairs and toasted almonds and jet stars and, for the truly unimaginative -- like my brother, as I recall -- vanilla dixie cups with the little wooden spoons that didn't really look like spoons. Smitty was all but forgotten by the time he secured the big shiny lever on the tiny freezer door, tipped his white hat, and went on his way. Except for the one evening that Kenny from the sixth floor and some of the older boys on the block threw eggs from Kenny's terrace at Smitty's truck as he drove off. I could never figure out why anyone would throw eggs at anybody or, for that matter, any thing, much less Smitty and his truckload of treasures. 

Eventually, Smitty and his little white truck were replaced by a bigger truck and a driver whose name none of us bothered to learn. I have rarely thought about Smitty, or even Kenny, whom I had thought was kind of cute until I saw him throwing eggs. Older boy or not, I at least had some standards. 

In the suburban neighborhood where I raised my own kids, a lifetime and just as many miles away from my girlhood home, there was an ice cream truck, I think. Occasionally I would see parents and their small children gathering on the appointed corner at the appointed time, but it never seemed anything like those summer nights in the sixties on the quasi urban streets of Brooklyn. Our moms never came out to wait with us; they threw us little purses filled with change from the terraces -- dropping them straight down so they wouldn't land on anybody. Terraces were handy launching pads, I suppose, back in the day, both for good and for evil. 

This morning, I watched my daughter run a race in Central Park with her co-workers. The race had a retro theme -- people wore bright sweat bands and leg warmers and psychedelic sun glasses and afro wigs. It was adorable, but I fretted to think that's as retro as folks get these days. Until I saw the little Good Humor truck drive up into a clearing, with the guy in the white pants and white shirt and white hat looking exactly the way Smitty used to look. Mostly, everybody seemed to ignore the truck. I just stared (and snapped a picture). 

I thought about Smitty, about how I simply expected him to be there, every evening, even after the egg incident. Serving up sweet treats, but, more than that, an invaluable thread in the fabric of my childhood.  Thank you for your service, Smitty, wherever you are. 

23 and Mommy

I complained to a friend the other day about how stubbornly independent my mother is. Okay, well maybe I just said stubborn, and he suggested independent. And then he had the gall to remind me I probably had 23 of her chromosomes, which I suppose he meant has a compliment but when you've spent much of your adult life pretending you are the opposite of your mother that kind of thing can sound like an accusation.

While it's all the rage now to send off saliva samples in the hope of discovering the mysteries buried within ones DNA, I have neither the need or desire to spit into a vial. I have enough trouble fighting off the genetic predispositions I know. 

My mother is 87 years old. Seven years ago, we were in a car accident together, and she got broken in several places. I, on the other hand, endured a few coffee stains on my dress and a little bit of a stressful entrance to my daughter's graduation ceremony. For the next year, my mother fought like hell to recover. She had to learn to walk again, and -- just as importantly, I think -- build up the strength to once again carry her two-ton "pocketbooks." Not even an intervening spinal collapse could stop her. She fretted. I snapped at her constantly. Her injuries and her negativity were infuriating, not to mention inconvenient.

She walked again, a bit more slowly. She tried her best to leave some of the designer accessories at home so she would not have to suffer the indignity of carrying an ordinary purse. I continued to snap at her about the ridiculousness of it all -- her refusal to lighten her load, her refusal to take a wheelchair ride to speed things up at the airport. Those are for old people, she told me.

Last year, she broke her hip. Again, extraordinarily inconvenient for me. I finagled and cajoled, and got the doctors to agree to release her in time so she could make it to Chicago -- in a wheelchair -- for her granddaughter's wedding two weeks later. The doctors were easy. Mom was not.

She did not make it to her granddaughter's wedding, but she is walking again. And carrying her pocketbook. And doing all kinds of things, for herself and by herself, that nobody in her right mind would be doing at 87, especially after so many broken bones. Stubborn. Crazy. Infuriating.

Independent. On the outside, my mother is beautiful and impeccably dressed and, to the casual observer -- and, to me, when I'm feeling particularly nasty -- all about appearances. My younger daughter, living with her grandmother temporarily, assured me, yesterday, after she overheard our somewhat heated telephone conversation, that my 87 year old mother was happily ironing her St. John suit before heading out on an "errand" I deemed wildly unnecessary and reckless. I had to laugh.

It is all about independence. I like to think, somewhere in the 23 chromosomes I can trace back to her, that "stubbornly independent" gene slipped in. My own children have already threatened to put me on a leash. They need only look at their grandmother to know that's not going to happen.

No Lobster Bisque for You, Professor Dershowitz!

I've been berated for being so dark, encouraged to post a happy tale.

Tragic news abounds, but there is indeed a comedic lining. Alan Dershowitz was shunned on Martha's Vineyard.  Move over, ghost of Mary Jo Kopechne; the esteemed professor might still be alive, but if he wants to stay on the island he's just going to have to eat fish sticks in a Red Roof Inn. Maybe, if he's lucky, someone will sneak him some leftover lobster salad.

Almost always, there are two sides to a story, more often three (with the first two being matters of plausible perspective and the third being closest to the truth).  I'm open-minded enough to acknowledge there are two sides to the story of America in 2018 as well. One is, let's see, how should I put this, RIGHT, and the other is, um, WRONG. SO WRONG.

There is no gray area here, on what we, collectively, are allowing to happen. Somehow, the darkest and most insidious rocks have been overturned and long dormant malevolence has been given the green light to crawl out and be heard. Somehow, a narcissistic thug has risen from the depths and it's not just the so-called deplorables who have lifted him up and carried him forward.

Come to think of it, the Dershowitz story is a happy tale. I am guessing the folks on Martha's Vineyard -- at least the summer folk -- enjoy their money and their tax breaks and their kelly green whale pants, and I would bet more than a few closet Republicans have cracked open some lobster claws with the liberal elites without anyone peeing in their terrines of melted butter. But it's encouraging to see that higher principles can trump (pardon the term) all else, and when anybody tries to rest on his laurels or supposed principles to use his own well positioned soap box to lend credulity to what is, in every sense of the word, an abomination, a line in the sand is drawn. No lobster bisque for you!

Professor Dershowitz, whatever your "principles" might be -- and I have a hunch they might even be noble if you weren't such a publicity hound -- you have become an enabler. There is little difference between you and the folks who rely on a twisted notion of religious freedom to  claim a constitutional right to shun homosexuals or, say, folks who believe in a woman's right to choose. Actually, there is a difference, and much danger. If a baker doesn't want to bake a cake for a gay couple, the gay couple can find another baker, and the local market will determine the fate of the local baker. If somebody's religious faith prohibits abortion, that person can choose to raise an unwanted baby or put her up for adoption. But when the people who have somehow grabbed the reins of our government and hijacked our democracy are doing everything they can to keep themselves in power while they chip away at everything we here have long taken for granted, people like you need to tread carefully when you wield your influence.

Professor Dershowitz, it's funny that, this holiday weekend, you didn't have melted butter on your hands. What's not funny is the blood that could replace it.

Independence Day, 2018

Life goes on in the bubble.

Here's the thing.  I have never been poor. I have never been raped. I have never regretted a pregnancy. I have been lucky enough to be thrilled about the prospect of meeting each of my unborn children, without reservation. I grieved when an early miscarriage took that chance away from me; I grieved, not for a life ended, but for a life never begun. 

I am thankful I have never had to make the choice, but I have never understood why it would be someone else's choice to make. I have never understood why the party of small government makes an exception when it comes to marching into a woman's womb. As if the personal decision isn't heart wrenching enough without a bunch of middle aged white guys scrubbing in. 

Oh yes, we've come a long way baby, which means we have so much farther to fall. The same folks who don't seem particularly interested in pushing back on a president who is slowly chipping away at the entire world order are literally giddy about the prospect of finally being able to push unwanted fetuses back in, no matter what the consequences. And separating children from their parents and putting babies in cages is okay as long as you're trying to keep them out, not in. I am so confused, here in my bubble. 

Tomorrow is Independence Day. It gives me pause. For the first time in my life, I feel shackled. Even while life goes on as it always has, in the bubble. While I sit outside at my neighborhood Starbucks, enjoying a relatively work-free Tuesday. While I decide whether to go to Pilates or take a bike ride or just spend the day waiting until it's a n acceptable time to switch from coffee to wine. While I still feel somewhat naively comfortable knowing that, here in my bubble state, my daughters will never have to resort to coat hangers to defy the intrusions of a bunch of white men who just don't get it. 

I cannot get this movie out of my head, a recent sleeper called "1945." The summer of 1945, somewhere in eastern Europe, where the war is over but people have not necessarily changed. A collective morning after, for the criminals and the accomplices and, mostly, for the ones who stood by, powerless, and did nothing. I wonder what 2020 holds for us, or, worst case scenario, 2024. Or, if I'm cautiously optimistic, 2018. I yearn to see the active collaborators get their due, but what of the rest of us? 

On Independence Day, 2018, I hope we all remember it's not just about the burgers and hot dogs, although I wouldn't give those up for anything. I hope the fireworks remind us all of how far we have come, and how far we can fall. There is much more at stake, this year, than a chance of rain on our parades.