Mint Juleps with Mom

As a new bride, I joined my husband in Kentucky. He was serving as a US Army chaplain at Fort Knox. His thought, when we got married, was that he would serve his 20 years in the US Army and then retire in Israel. I, of course, had other plans. It wasn’t that I thought the Army was so foreign to my experience- it was, but my concern was that I didn’t want to have an unstable life, moving from place to place. Fortunately, I found an ally, my mother-in-law, who was not keen on her only child perhaps being sent to Vietnam where the war was in full swing.

Married in July, by the following May I was 7 months pregnant and my husband had agreed to look for a civilian pulpit. He was asked to fly out to Spokane, Washington, to interview there.

When I told my mother, she insisted that she come to stay with me while he was gone- from Thursday through Sunday because  she was afraid for me to be alone.

So that Thursday I literally walked to the gate on the left side of the corridor and watched my husband get on the plane and then turned to the right side at the gate directly across from it, and within minutes, my mother arrived.

It was the first time she had seen me showing- and by 7 months, I was pretty large. She noticed. We drove to my home and I cannot recall any details about our discussion nor about anything we discussed for those 3 days. I do know there were lots of smiles and laughter.

What I can recall is feeling very special, carrying her first grandchild. I can recall our going out once for ice cream sundaes at the local Howard Johnson’s and laughing when we heard a  group of women order large ice cream sundaes and diet drinks. I remember that Saturday night, we decided to check  out the place on Dixie Highway that was advertising mint juleps- the Kentucky Derby was that weekend and mint juleps were all the rage. I remember we went into the place that had them and we sat down and ordered them. She sat with her back to the door and I sat across from her.

I don’t remember what they tasted like. I don’t remember what we said. I just remember that the time we spent together that weekend was probably the best time we ever had together.

On Sunday afternoon, my mother left and a few minutes later, my husband returned.  A bit over 2 months later our oldest son was born.

mom

Twenty-six years later, I visited my own daughter in Israel when she was pregnant with my first grandchild. I hope she also experienced precious moments.

I miss it

Today I was folding laundry and I came to a shirt that I have that is similar to one that a woman might wear when she is pregnant. I had noticed that there were stains on it before I washed it and I held it up to see if the stains were gone. And suddenly I was remembering looking at my maternity blouses, also stained by my clumsiness when I was pregnant. I remembered looking down on my rounded belly and seeing the remnants of breakfast, lunch, midday snacks and dinner. I remember taking a dress to the dry cleaner and explaining what all of the stains were and the clerk saying “sounds like a good meal.” I thought about the feeling of a little one moving around inside. I remembered that my mother referred to the first awareness of the baby’s movements as “feeling life.” I recalled how amazing it was to feel a new life inside of me, to think and wonder about who that little person would become. I remembered feeling such love for someone who I had never seen, never met. I remembered the excitement of anticipation and the weeks and then days of waiting. And then there was the reward of spectacular births! I loved being pregnant.


*Note: This picture almost survived a fire

After the birth of our youngest child, we never thought of having another. Our family was exactly what we wanted. Now, all of the children are grown and have children of their own. I have no regrets, but every once in a while, I miss it.

Fairy godmothers

OK, I’m not really talking about fairy godmothers, but I thought it might be a topic that people were curious about.

Well, actually, yes, I am talking about fairy godmothers, but not in the fictional sense.

There is a concept without a name (at least one that I am familiar with) that I would like to explore. If it’s been written about before, I would love to hear about it, so please let me know.

Having grown up in a home that wasn’t the most nurturing, I had to find validation other places. Here’s where I found it: there were teachers who smiled at me, there were my aunts who made me feel loved, and there were my grandmothers. All of these people were, to some extent, fairy godmothers. They were around sometimes and it was often merely their presence in my mind that formed for me a safety net in the world. As long as they were around, even if only in recent memory, I felt loved and supported. As a group, it felt as if I was encircled by them and protected.

As the years went by and I learned how to appreciate my own value and accomplishments, I didn’t need fairy godmothers so much. But still there were my parents there in the background, out of sight, but still potential supports. After the death of my father, I substituted my uncles in his role of standing behind me, supporting me.

Somewhere in my 30s or 40s, I began to realize that I took the place of fairy godmother for some Lamaze students I taught and some clients I worked with as a therapist. They carried me in their pocket or their mind or their heart, to take out when they needed reinforcement and stability and, I guess, love. I only knew, because they told me.

As time goes on, I realize the world is full of fairy godmothers. They are the people who are in our lives who just by their being there, even when they are far away, give us affirmation and strength. As we get older, often they are mentors, peers, and nowadays, facebook friends– people whose presence enriches our lives.

Often, our fairy godmothers don’t know the function they have in our lives. Often, we don’t realize it until they are no longer around.

So today, look around at your fairy godmothers. Figure out who they are. And appreciate how they have made your life better, just by being there.

And then, think about whose fairy godmother you are, because whether you know it or not, someone who is not in your family– who you may see only occasionally, someone’s life is better just because you are in it.

Boom!

Yesterday, I was taking my daughter and her children home to their home in Modiin. She lives on a street that is more like a boulevard that has the traffic in either direction separated by parks, a school, and a shopping center– in between the two directions so that each direction of traffic is on the equivalent of a one way street. Each side has two lanes for traffic and a third lane where there is parking.

I had parked in a parking space. I looked out of my side view mirror and saw there was no traffic, so I got out of the car. I then went to the back door of the car to unlatch and get my 2 year old grandson out of his car seat (his sister was in a car seat on the other side). I once again looked to see there was no traffic and opened the passenger door and leaned in to unhook him.

Suddenly I heard a large bang. I saw debris on the street and then I realized that it was not from my car, but from a car that had hit my car. I noted that there was no other traffic on the street, including the left lane, the entire time from when I initially got out of my car until after the other driver had gotten out of his car after he hit my car.

My first reaction was disbelief.

I gathered up the debris which turned out to be pieces of his car mirror that had flown off after the impact.

The man stopped some distance in front of my car and got out of his car. He seemed dazed. I believe he was carrying a cell phone. I handed him the parts of his mirror that I had gathered up and noticed that his car had scratches in a line from about the front of the front door back.

We exchanged information and he told me that I should not have been in the street. He said he was in a hurry and would call me later.

When he left, I got my grandson out and gave him to my daughter who took him and her daughter to her house.

I tried to close my left-hand passenger door, but it would not close. I saw that in addition to the curved area at the edge of the door, it had another dent toward the front and it was jammed under the driver’s door.

I decided to drive home which was about 6 blocks away. Then we called the insurance office for further instructions.

My husband took the car to the Toyota dealer and after he had returned, the man who hit me called me to ask for insurance information which I gave him. He tried to tell me that I should not have been in the street. I did not argue with him.

About an hour later, we received a call from a “private number” from a man who said he was calling on behalf of the driver. I believe it was a different voice. He was talking very fast and sounded very angry and I was scared so I put my husband on the phone. He asked my husband repeatedly for our address. My husband told him that the vehicle was not here. He still badgered him for the address. My husband did not give it to him. He told my husband he was going to report me to the police. He continued talking and finally my husband hung up. He has not called back, but we both found the call very upsetting.

I have a few responses to the whole incident:

1. I am grateful that I was not killed. I imagine the space between me and death was only a single number of inches.

2. I am even more grateful that my grandson was still safely belted into his seat and that he wasn’t hurt (or even traumatized!)

3. I think that people should look where they are driving. I believe that the person behind the wheel has a responsibility to look in front of his/her car to avoid hitting other cars or people.

4. I resent that I, the victim, have to be defensive. The man at the car dealer told my husband that people are not supposed to get out on the street side of the car. Virtually every car in this country has bucket seats. I don’t recall ever seeing a driver enter or exit an accessible vehicle from the passenger seat.

5. If the car door police do come and get me, I hope they put me into a Norwegian jail.

Ooof!

One of the things that people learn when they move to a new country with a new language is that exclamations differ from those they were raised with. In English, pain evokes an “ouch!” In Hebrew, it’s “Ay-ah!” Frustration in Hebrew evokes an “Ooof!” I’ll admit it; I forgot the English.

So why am I frustrated? It actually has to do with the fact that there is so much right with my life these days. I am feeling healthy, have kept off the weight I lost, and have no problem maintaining a healthy diet. We recently witnessed the graduation from high school of our oldest granddaughter and the awarding of a PhD to our son-in-law. My husband and I had a great honeymoon getaway for our 45th anniversary, and our children invited us to a wonderful dinner celebration in its honor, bringing along a nice sampling of well-behaved gorgeous grandchildren. We are in a state of high preparation for the tour we are leading to Vietnam and Cambodia and are looking forward to a week of fun in Thailand on our way back. In the fall, after the holidays, we’ll be taking a trip to the US and when we get back, I’ll be teaching marriage and family therapy once again. And then, best of all, we prepare for my sister’s aliya!

The blessing of a beautiful garden in Israel, filled with gorgeous plants and fruit trees brings with it the worry of the health of our gorgeous plum tree that has been attacked by some type of a worm. The blessing of a great apartment that we are renting out brings with it the work of cleaning it thoroughly between occupants. The blessing of being close to our children brings day to day discussions and concerns about the types of issues that remote grandparents never hear of.

So why am I frustrated?

I guess it’s because I wish I could split myself in two or three or four in order to give adequate time and attention to all of the wonderful people and things in my life.

I worry about letting people down.

Ooof!

Click on pictures for full images!

And so on…

I have been asked to continue writing about getting older. As I said, it’s not a subject that brings great joy, although I do remember asking my father how was it for him to grow older and he said, “It beats the alternative.”

So here goes…

In our teens, the world is all in front of us. Life seemingly will go on forever. We think about what we will do in the future. It’s all about getting more educated, more intelligent, more savvy, more involved, and taking on more and more responsibility.

When we are young adults, we begin to move toward our goals as best we can. There may be bumps in the road, but we have time.

Those of us who marry and have children spend the next years so involved in day to day life that at some point as the children reach adolescence, we think, “When did the time pass?” Suddenly, we are the older generation.

The children grow up and get married and that is good. And then, babies appear. Oh, they are so cute and lovable and sweet. And then we realize, we are grandparents. How did that happen?

But we are still young and active, or so we feel. As much as we look forward to retirement, the 50s and early 60s have us working at the top of our game.

And then, while we are still feeling like we’re in our 30s or 40s, that ugly number 65 appears.

And suddenly we realize that in the best of cases, we have more to look back on than to look forward to. In front of us is decline.

So we again focus on each day. We set up events to look forward to. We go out to eat. We meet friends. We travel to faraway places. We live each day fully.

But the world looks different.

The small concerns about falling or about having a strange lump or bump or reaction to an insect bite suddenly appear to be a threat that finally something is going to get you… because like it or not, at some age, you begin to realize you won’t live forever and then any threat to one’s health becomes a reason for concern. Maybe this is the thing that’s going to get me.

Of course I need to admit that when I was about 33, I had a lump on my arm, just below my elbow. For weeks, or maybe months, I was afraid to go to the doctor to ask what it was. I began having dreams about swimming around in circles with my one arm (they’d apparently amputated the other) and decided that it was time to see the doctor. I don’t even remember what he said, but it was truly nothing and I can still swim straight. But I do tend to envision the worst possible outcome when something is wrong and when I don’t, I tell myself that I am in denial… And, I think it gets worse the older I get.

Let’s hope I have another 40 years or so to worry….

…but do they know?

Yesterday I was talking to someone who is visiting Israel on one of those programs that exist for young people. When I asked if she would be coming back to stay, she said to me, “My parents miss me.”

Ah, how tender! Her parents miss her. I am sure they do. She is a delightful person. But more important than the fact that they miss her is the fact that she knows it.

I was immediately struck by the realization that I never could have made that statement. Did my parents miss me when I was gone? Sometimes I think the happiest moments of their lives were when they were dropping me off at camp or at some weekend experience. When I returned, there was never the feeling that I had been missed. In fact, it seemed like my re-entry constituted a sort of intrusion.

Did my parents love me? I’m betting they did. My mother in her own hung-up way probably did love me. My father in his very quiet, very gentle way, I am sure loved me. But did I know it? Did I feel it?

I think about my own children. I wonder if they felt that kind of love. I wonder if they knew that I missed them when they were gone. I wonder if my oldest son knows that I cried half the night when we left him in Atlanta to attend school there. I wonder if he knew the joy I felt when he came home for weekends. I wonder if my daughter realized that the day I went to pick her up in Oklahoma City 100 miles away, when I brought her back for a surprise visit to the States, I sobbed most of the way to the airport and practically jumped out of my skin when the plane was late. I wonder about my other children too, whether they know how many times I have spent days and nights worrying about their safety as they traveled to strange places, as they served in the Army and reserves, as they traveled on dark roads past Arab villages. I wonder if they know how much I love them.

Parents’ love is strong and fierce, but sometimes our gentle, laid-back manner belies the passion we feel for the safety, well-being, and happiness of our children. How can we let them know?

It seems that some parents know how to do it. I’d like the recipe, please.

Herding cats

Imagine for a moment that you had a very small family and all you ever wanted was a big one. So, you got married and had maybe 5 children. It was fun. They were great. Yes, there were arguments and pushing and vying for attention, but in general, it was fun.

And now suppose that you had forgotten that when they grew up they would want to have families of their own. It actually never entered your mind.

And now imagine that in the blink of an eye there are something like 28 grandchildren.. maybe even a couple more… and all of a sudden, it’s not that easy to do almost anything with all of them. Oh, and along the way, the children have acquired spouses…

And now, let’s say you wanted to get a picture of all of them.

Um, you get the picture. Only I didn’t. Watch the following to see people disappear and reappear. Guess how many are missing the day of the picture taking and how many are hiding or are blocked in each picture.*

Yep. Herding cats.

Oh, there are more, but you get the point…

*The winner gets to be the photographer the next time.

Wednesdays with Ephraim

Wednesday morning

I get into the car.
My husband drives me to the train station.
I put my backpack through the X-ray machine, take the escalator downstairs.
There he is, smiling. “Savta!” he says.
His mom is there too, prepared for the trip.
I buy the tickets- one adult, one senior citizen (me???)
We get onto the train.
He sits on the seat and looks out the window.
“Tunnel!” he says.
We leave the tunnel and outside is interesting “trees! cars! bus!”
But after a while, it gets boring.
We take out the notebook computer.
He puts on the headphones and watches Dora.
He smiles.
Dora is over, he is ready to do something else.
“We’ll be there soon”
His mom gives him something to drink, a granola bar.
I give him my magnetic necklace.
Each occupies him for a minute or two.
“We’ll be there soon.”
Binyamina
It should be soon now.
Trees, cars, bus.
But it goes on and on.
Twenty minutes with a two year old who is bored is not easy.
Finally we arrive.
The taxi driver calls out our destination address. He took us there two weeks ago.
In the taxi the driver says, in English, “Wake up!”
Two weeks ago our two year old almost fell asleep in the taxi.
This week, he also looks like he will fall asleep.
He closes his eyes.
We say, “Wake up!”
His eyes stay closed, but a mischievous grin appears on his face.
This happens a few more times during our 7 minute trip up the mountain.
We arrive.
We walk up the stairs.
The waiting room has toys that by now are familiar.
He wants coffee.
They take him into the other room.
He doesn’t like when they look at his eyes.
They don’t touch him, but still he holds his hands across his eyes.
Each time they want to see his eyes, we distract him with something else.
The same item doesn’t work twice.
Finally, they are finished looking at him and we can go.
He still wants coffee.
His mother gives him a little tea with a lot of milk.
He is happy.
We walk to the taxi stand.
Soon we are at the train station.
In a few minutes, the train arrives.
The train is full.
But we find seats.
He is not pleased.
He screams and wails.
We take out the notebook computer once again.
This time he sits in his stroller and like any guy in a recliner, he settles back and watches another episode of Dora.
Relaxing on the train
Near the end of the ride he becomes bored again.
We try to find something to entertain him.
Even my Chinese fan loses its attraction in a short time.
Finally we approach the station.
Next week, we get to do it all over again.

Obligatory “I’m getting old, blah blah blah” post

Yes, it happened. I can’t believe it. A very frightening thing happened to me just a few days ago. I had a birthday. And no, not just any birthday, but that one that rejects any rationalizations. I am getting old.

Once, when I asked my father if it was awful to get old (he never did get old) he told me that it beats the alternative. I agree.

But how did this happen?

How can it be that I still am 30-something inside and, well, this old?

On the one hand, it seems that there is no logical escape from the conclusion. On the other, here are a few of the things that I didn’t think I would be doing when I got old:

Having what? 27? 28? 30? grandchildren*
Picking fruit off trees in my garden, in ISRAEL!
Seeing giant tortoises and magnificent frigates and blue-footed boobies in the Galapagos
Zip-lining over cloud forest in Ecuador
Visiting Machu Picchu
Taking another group of people to China
Writing a blog

So yes, the number did change, but a number is only a number. Life is more fun every single year. I am blessed.

And yes, it’s much better than the alternative.

*Depends on how you count