June Bubbe

"I wasn't the one who accidentally folded you up in the stroller. That was grandma." I was trying to plead my case, clear it with the bosses so I could break up my first long evening of babysitting with a stroll. 

"Yes, but you're a grandma now," my daughter shot back. Well what is that supposed to mean? Old? Frail? Incompetent? All of the above, I take it. 

Sensing the affront, she took a different tack. "I don't want her walking around the city in the dark." 

It's June. Less than three weeks shy of the summer solstice. And it was only 6:30. After a lifetime of picking battles -- or trying to -- I knew enough to let this one go.  

Long ago, well before I was old and frail and incompetent, I was a new mother. And by that, I mean I was a tyrant when it came to anybody who wasn't my new baby. I trusted nobody, insisted that everybody abide by my rules. I remember detecting my mother-in-law's eye-roll through the back of her head when I barked at her for using a regular towel to bathe my little jewel. Not one of the ten hooded baby towels, laundered in Dreft, that I had shlepped along. As if. 

These children (yes they are in their thirties, but children to me) in whom I have reluctantly but graciously entrusted the care of my new granddaughter are as authoritarian as, well, as I was, once. The transformation came slowly during the pregnancy, but the signs were there. There were the vaccine requirements and the infant CPR classes and the explanations about why the baby would be sleeping in their room for at least six months (a big compromise, as a year is the current recommendation). No leaving the baby in the car seat to sleep. I thought they were reminding me not to ever leave the baby in the car, or maybe on the roof of the car, or maybe by the side of the road. How would they survive if they had to come home and take the finally sleeping baby out of the car seat? My brain screamed silently, I looked into the procedures for my inevitable custody battle. I pretended, as well as I could, that I was not deeply concerned. 

Seven weeks in, my granddaughter -- my granddaughter -- appears to be thriving in the care of these novices.  And, oddly, they seem to be thriving too. 

Summer solstice for most, winter solstice for me, I suppose. But it's been worth the wait. 

Passing (or Sharing) the Torch on Mother's Day

Word has it that my daughter cried harder and longer than her baby did this morning when she got a shot. An apt initiation into motherhood I think, on this eve of Mother's Day weekend. 

Though I have long believed that Mother's Day is the only holiday I have truly earned, I anticipate it this year in a way I never have. Oddly, I have almost forgotten that I am, technically, an honoree. This year, my daughter is a mother. My daughter feels her own daughter's pain long after the actual pain has been forgotten. She feels her daughter's hunger with an urgency that puts our own struggles with "hangry-ness" to shame. She sees the world through her daughter's eyes, and knows what it feels like to want all things evil or even mildly unpleasant to go away, just for her daughter's sake. 

My own mother, a plane ride away in a nursing home and not with me this Mother's day in person, must know how I feel. A mother of a mother, a mother of a person who has become the thing that changed me forever. I should be celebrating my mother -- a grandmother, and now a great-grandmother -- a woman who has been at this business for more than six decades. But I'm guessing she, too, believes this Mother's Day is about the new one in our ranks. 

The other grandmothers in our local band of celebrants this year (yes, there are more than two of us in our modern family) have chosen their grandma names, yet I remain undecided. My first choice -- bubbe -- has been squarely rejected, though I think my granddaughter would take well to the simplicity of the word. I've chewed on other options, but just cannot commit. "TBD" it is, for now. 

The point is, it's not about me, and my moniker can wait. It's about my daughter, forever changed. And it's about my mother, who knows not only what it's like to love a daughter, but also to love a daughter who loves a daughter who loves a daughter. How cool is that?

To all the women out there who have ever loved someone in a way that cannot be described, this Mother's Day for you. 

While We Were Looking Up

About 17 miles north of where I sat in my office, and about a year before I became a mother, an eight year old boy was murdered in his classroom by a deranged woman with a gun. The town was Winnetka, Illinois and the boy's name was Nick Corwin. Winnetka might ring a bell for some, if only because it is the picturesque upscale suburb that gave us the Home Alone mansion. Nick Corwin might not ring a bell for anybody. 

The shooting at the Hubbard Woods School, and the less deadly but nevertheless extraordinary terror that ensued in the neighborhood as the killer continued her fateful spree, shook me to my core. Not as a future suburbanite who believed suburbs were safe. Not as a future mother who knew that the loss of a child under any circumstance is horrific, under this circumstance, incomprehensible. Simply as a human being who could not fathom the depths to which someone must sink to commit such an atrocity. 

Fast forward to April 2023. Not a week after three children and three adults were slaughtered in a Nashville school, and we seem to have forgotten. Instead, anyone masochistic enough to flip on the news at any hour of the day yesterday was treated to endless coverage of an airplane emblazoned with the gag-inducing name of the vile life-long criminal/ex-president, sitting first on one tarmac then another. The equivalent of watching ugly paint dry. The odious person himself waving like a movie star to, well, nobody in particular as he strutted his grotesque self into his Manhattan home.  

While we were watching, all over Tennessee, students of all ages were rising up. And, while students rose up, Republicans in the state legislature plunged beneath rock bottom, stripping Democrats from committees for having the audacity to joint the protests, still steadfastly refusing to enact any sort of common-sense gun reform. 

While we were watching, the fascistic governor of Florida, the much-touted "sane" alternative for 2024 -- you know, the one who is not only (horrors) picking fights with Disney but also banning books and stripping rights from women and anybody who isn't an avowed heterosexual and repeating anti-Semitic tropes with abandon --  signed into law a bill that lets people carry guns without a permit and without any training. Maybe I'm not remembering correctly, but wasn't there a mass school shooting in Florida only a few years ago?

Ah well, who cares. Back to the plane, boss. De plane. 

The way things look, my grandchildren will be born into a world of active shooter drills and back-alley abortions and hate directed against anybody who isn't a White Christian nationalist. And wall-to-wall news coverage of a big plane and viewer polls about whether a life-long criminal who capitalized on everything that's wrong with our world to try to hijack our country should be indicted. Since when do we defer to polls to decide these things -- and by the way, who actually answers calls from pollsters? 

I don't mean to sound so angry. Well I suppose I do. I'm angry and I'm scared. Kudos to the young people in Tennessee for waking up and rising up. Hopefully, the rest of us won't have to wait for a shooter to appear in our midst to avert our eyes from the plane. 

Ninety-two Years Old-ish

 

Happy Birthday Mom!

Last February, we celebrated my mom's 90th and 91st birthday, determined to make up for the in-person time we had lost to Covid the year before. On her 90th, twelve months earlier, I had felt cheated, thinking how unfair it was for somebody to hit such a milestone confined to her home, even though she was still healthy and vibrant enough to enjoy life. We made do, convened via Zoom from our various corners of a still quarantined world. We comforted ourselves with thoughts of a delayed in-person celebration when everything would return to "normal." 

Fast forward to February 2022, with normalcy returning on a macro scale but with mysterious whispers of a downturn on the home front, for mom. The year began, for me, with frequent visits to New York. Through sheer force of will, she had overcome a handful of devastating blows to her bones in her 80's, and had surprised many (though not me) by learning to walk again, twice. But forces of nature are not infallible, not even my mother, and suddenly, in early 2022, she was struggling -- inexplicably -- to walk. Still, when my daughters and I arrived in New York to celebrate her two birthdays, "no" was not an option. I dug out a wheelchair, made sure she was decked out in her usual fashion, and off we went to one of her favorite Manhattan restaurants, my brother's objections notwithstanding. 

As it turns out, both my brother and I were correct. Somehow, I knew it was important to go, and, in spite of what I assume was intractable pain, mom had the time of her life. Somehow, ever more cautious than I, my brother sensed she was in worse shape than we knew, and maybe the outing wasn't necessary. Not necessary indeed, but, at least for me, important, as I cling to memories of that dinner -- the last time my mom set foot -- or wheels -- in a restaurant. 

It's an ironic twist of fate, I suppose, that the pall of the pandemic lifted only to make way for a more personal dark cloud. My always beautiful and active and headstrong mother is still fighting, but the battles have been daunting -- even for her. For almost a year, now, she has been confined in a nursing home -- first to a bed and now, against all odds, to a chair, with a daily ten minute stroll around the hallway with her walker. She has accepted this new normal far better than I have; though I watched two grandmothers languish in nursing homes, I never imagined my mother would. Languish, I suppose, is a strong word. She is still who she always was, shouting out orders to anybody within earshot, determined that everything will be done as she deems necessary. Just goes to show, you don't need to wear a St. John suit and carry a Chanel "pocketbook" to be the boss. 

Yesterday, my brother and I celebrated mom's 92nd birthday with her. We brought the restaurant to her, and we pretended everything was "normal." We snagged a couple of residents and aides and nurses to sing happy birthday with us -- not difficult with the promise of cupcakes. Mom seemed particularly fascinated by the number. "Ninety-two," she marveled. "I really should be dead." She said it with her trademark smile, knowing it will take a lot more for her to lose the war. 

May the Holidays Deliver Cheer

Most days our mail does not arrive until after five o'clock. It's a large building in a sea of large buildings, but I don't think that's the reason for the late delivery.  

Snow, rain, heat, or gloom of night, just as the Postal Service has always promised, our mail carrier, Teresa, shows up. She unloads her little truck, piles packages and letters and lord knows what else into the sort of wagon most of us use for idyllic summer picnics, and hobbles into the lobby. Hobbles, because she has some sort of crippling condition that renders her stooped and painstakingly slow. Teresa spends only a few moments in the lobby, catching her breath, no doubt, dropping off the larger packages, and sharing some gossip with the afternoon door-person. Most of us never cross paths with Teresa, as she disappears quickly -- as quickly as she can -- into the back, where she wheels around in some sort of assistive device, filling  upwards of 400 boxes. 

The first time I actually met Teresa, I had caught up with her in the lobby to let her know that I had changed apartments, hoping she would intercept mail not yet forwarded. She already knew -- not me, but my name and my new location -- and she assured me it would be done. What struck me most was not her efficiency, admirable though it was. It was her smile. Wide, radiant, sincere. Such a smile atop a body that seems to have broken down a good bit, a body compelled nevertheless to slog through the sort of abominable meteorological onslaughts that keep those of us with fully functioning legs increasingly dependent upon Grub Hub, wishing they would also walk our dogs.  

I kept my eye out for Teresa's truck yesterday, because I wanted to give her a little something for the holidays. I wondered whether even somebody like Teresa, dedicated and dependable no matter what, would show up to navigate the day's icy walkways and arctic temperatures, not to mention the winds near Lake Michigan that made it almost impossible to open our building's back door. 

Shame on me for my skepticism. Teresa was already in the back, so I opened my little box and called out to her. She wheeled around, perched exactly at the right level to peer back out at me. Just her sparkling eyes and her glorious smile sending rays of light through my empty mailbox. Largely invisible Teresa, radiant just to say hello, even before I handed her my insignificant gift. 

She is retiring this week, she told me.  As thrilled as I am for Teresa -- she has certainly earned some R & R -- I feel a little lost. Not because of the mail -- I do most things on-line, so snail mail has become somewhat irrelevant. I expect though, that in Teresa's place, there will be somebody young and upright, someone who arrives much earlier in the day, someone who maybe resents having to lug around other folks' mail in snow, rain, heat, gloom, or whatever else Chicago winters have to offer. 

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year and Glorious Retirement, Teresa. And happy and healthy holidays to all the Teresa's out there, and to the rest of us who might try harder, next year, to find things to smile about. 

When I'm Almost 64!

I was seven years old when the Beatles recorded When I'm 64. The ancient age seemed unimaginable to me back then, as I'm sure it did for the 24 year old Paul McCartney. Or for John Lennon, who probably didn't have dying by assassination at the age of 40 on his Bingo card. 

Well into the first week of my 64th year now, I distinctly remember reading the poem by A.A. Milne, Now We Are Six. I had yet to turn six when my parents bought me the collection of poems, but, from what I could tell, six would be great. The pinnacle even.

When I was Five, I was just alive. But now I am Six, I'm as clever as clever, So I think I'll be six now for ever and ever. 

I don't recall much about being six, but I'm fairly certain it wasn't as great as A.A. Milne cracked it up to be, and I'm willing to bet I couldn't wait to be seven. At the very least, I'd be more clever, with nothing but good things ahead. 

Sixty-four looms large now. Paul's musings about irrelevance seem a bit harsh, and Milne's musings about cleverness seem a bit short-sighted, but the future seems daunting in its increasing brevity. I've read that Paul has rethought the lyrics over the years, suggesting recently that he should move the goalpost  to 94. Sigh. From the guy who yearned so wholeheartedly for yesterday, it's refreshing to see such a sanguine endorsement of the present, at any age. 

My 64th year began well. I flew into the path of an oncoming hurricane and did not blow away, barely even got wet. In other weather news, a red tsunami never materialized and a democratic republic far more ancient and fragile than I am managed to live another day. Another two years, at least. My faith in humanity has been reinvigorated, though I realize there is so much work to be done. The good guys are neither irrelevant nor as clever as clever can be, and it's up to us -- all of us -- to determine what lies ahead.

As I travel toward older age with what appears to be accelerating speed, I cannot help but wonder what life will be like when I'm 64. Or 65, or 66. I'm neither clever enough to know, nor irrelevant enough to not care. I believe in yesterday; how else does one learn how to handle today, or tomorrow. As Paul has no doubt discovered, birthday greetings and bottles of wine and Sunday morning rides are here to stay. I've yet to learn to knit or mend fuses, but I'm always learning something, and there is never a shortage of sweet surprises. 

When I'm 64, in less than a year, the one thing I know for sure is I'll still be a work in progress. 

Chasing Rainbows in New York

My mother has been deaf for so many years I barely notice. She seems unfazed by silence, and I only register her deafness when it becomes inconvenient for me.  Like when she would call to me from another room and, not hearing my response, just call to me again. Like when she makes me write even the most insignificant conversation fillers down. Like when she insists she can hear some people, but not me.  I have become oblivious to the void. 

Until there is music.

Somewhere, over the rainbow. . . .   I was sitting in companionable silence with mom while she watched the news and I sort of half listened. The deafness I’m used to, but the whole nursing home thing, well, that’s a different story. Again, though, she seems unfazed by her new reality, while I focus obsessively on petty inconveniences. My frequent trips to New York. Nursing home smells. My vital and independent mom, confined to a bed. 

Someday I'll wish upon a star, and wake up where the clouds are far behind me. . . .  Maybe. The television is always on, with closed captions for mom and low volume for me. I like background noise, and it occurs to me how privileged I am to be able to have it but ignore it – do something more interesting. It’s a guilty pleasure, relegating sound to some auditory footnote while my mom doesn’t even have a choice.  She cannot hear the steady drumbeat of hallway noise –the periodic beeping of call buttons, the gentle patois of gossiping aides. And she was utterly unaware of the dulcet tones that suddenly wafted in -- soft guitar chords, a sweet and clear male voice, a faint yet equally sweet male voice joining in. I went out to investigate.

Where troubles melt like lemon drops. . . .  An elderly gentleman, sporting a red white and blue tie, bald on top, a soft cloud of strawberry blond hair cascading over the nape of his neck. Had there been a pot of gold, I would not have been surprised. The gentleman in the next room had pulled into the doorway in his wheelchair, and was singing along. Neither appeared to notice me standing there. 

Hearing loss sometimes has its perks, I suppose. Several years ago, mom came with me and my daughter to see Bohemian Rhapsody. Not the sort of movie that lends itself to closed-captioning, but it was a perfect way to give her a chance to rest for a few hours before dinner. It was joyously deafening, Bohemian Rhapsody. Mom slept. We all emerged raving – a win-win. I hoped she could at least feel the beat. 

But now, hearing loss seemed to be anything but a perk. I leaned against the doorjamb and listened.  If happy little bluebirds fly, beyond the rainbow – why, oh why can’t I? I clapped. I thanked the gentleman with the soft voice and the soft cloud of strawberry blond hair. He nodded. Then he was gone. Beyond the rainbow? To the elevator? I don’t know.  As quickly as he had appeared, he was nowhere to be found. 

I went back in. Mom hadn’t noticed I was gone, so I didn’t bother to explain. I looked out her window. It was raining, but no rainbows. No bluebirds, just pigeons.