The Kate Chronicles

Civilization Continues Its Decline...

Yes, I know. We have bigger problems to worry about than baby names, starting with the climate crisis and this zillion degree weather. 

And yes, people have the freedom to name their child whatever they want. But there comes a time with that freedom is abused.

I wrote about weird baby names for Good Housekeeping years ago, and the one that stands out in my mind is the poor little girl named "Crumpet." Not to mention the mother who insisted on a "unique" spelling of the already popular "Caitlyn" as "KVIIItlyn. "  That "VIII" in there - it's the Roman Numeral for "eight." Get it - you might still pronounce it as K-eight-lynn. I can't....

Here's the thing I don't get - the desire for "unique" names. Why? What trauma would the kid experience if he or she shared a name with someone?  I'm not saying we should go back to the days of classrooms full of Bobbys and Susies, but is there no limit to this parental...er...creativity? 

This all got stirred up for me again when I came across this New Yorker article about Tik Tok influencers' baby naming. I'm just going to cut and paste the first paragraph, because paraphrasing wouldn't do it justice:

"After the birth this spring of her third child, a baby girl named Whimsy Lou, the lifestyle influencer Nara Smith posted a TikToklisting some of the names she and her husband liked but did not ultimately use. Among them were Tank, Clementine, Flick, Halo and Dew.

Francesca Farago, a reality television star, posted a similar video recently, including names like Heart, Ethereal, Prosper and Afternoon. Her husband also liked the name Orca, she said. (Ms. Farago vetoed naming her child after the killer whale.)"

The article also quotes Emily Kim, described as "a full-time baby name consultant" suggesting that baby naming has become a way of "personal branding." You, too, can consult with Ms. Kim, starting at $295 for a five-minute session. 

I'm going to go crawl back into my curmudgeonly hole and re-read Jane Austen now.

 

 

 

 

41 Years of Marriage - Jewels After All!

Traditionally, the gift for a couple celebrating their 40th wedding anniversary is rubies. (Yeah, that reference may be a bit dated.)

We marked that milestone last year, but with looking for a new house and packing up the old one, we decided to push off the celebration until now.

We are of the less-stuff-but-more-experiences school of gifting at this point in our lives. So we set off for a one week trip to Barcelona.

Usually, are vacations are of the National Park variety, and we both really love those. But it was also great to be in a European city, soaking up the culture and the history.

And guess what. It turns out we did celebrate with rubies. We visited Gaudi's famous cathedral, La Sagrada Familia, in the late afternoon.

The sun hit the red and gold stained windows at just the right time, and voila - rubies!  

 

 

My Mom The Centenarian

She never ate kale. Didn't care much for exercise. Liked her vodka and plenty of it. Never suffered fools.

Today my Mom turned 100 years old. Look at her! She's amazing. 

 

Old Marriages

This year I made Michael a Valentine's Day card. I meant it to be professional-looking, but in the end it looked like an elementary-school art project, complete with construction paper and glued on copies of photographs.

Anyway, this homemade valentine included pictures from when we were first dating (ages 24 and 29 respectively) and extended all the way to the present. On one of the pages, I wrote the comment, "I can't believe we've been hanging out for 42 years."

Mike, reading the card, looked up and said, "It's 43 years."

Well, we've been married long enough that he knows my math skills are abominable. And I know that despite his deadpan tone, he loved the card.

People talk a lot about aging, but not so much about aging marriages. They grow old too. If you're lucky. And I don't mean old in the sense of becoming more frail or worn out. I mean they age like people - with some loss, sure, but also with wisdom and patience and a depth in a relationship that's just not possible when you're younger. 

Our bookshelves are lined with dozens of photo albums documenting our journey together. Dating - giddy, bright eyed, wrapped around each other.  Me, hugely pregnant, smiling and a little anxious, peering over a crib decorated with stuffed animals, bumpers and mobiles. (All stuff that I would later learn as a grandparent is today considered dangerous.) Michael and me with toddlers, with school aged kids, on family trips, with sullen teens who refused to smile for the camera, graduations, weddings, adventurous trips that just the two of us have taken together.

Mike's hair, once jet black, begins to show signs of grey and is gradually taken over my silver. My hair, in various shades of blonde (depending on my hairdresser at the time) and finally a blond and silver mix. 

There were times I didn't think we would make it. Now I understand why the marriage vows hit the highlights they do. In sickness and in health (terrifying trips to the hospital), for richer and poorer (on those career roller coasters), for better and for worse (we each dished out a healthy share of worse, and, I like to think, better).

Every time I turn around these days, it feels as if there's another book or podcast on "open marriage" or "polyamory." Well, good luck, God bless, and it's not my business. For me, it's plenty to nurture just one intimate relationship. 

I remember being young, and seeing an elderly couple holding hands. And I'd think, "Oh, that's so cute!" But now I know it's more than cute. It's fortitude, lots of work and incredibly good luck. 

This is not a victory lap. It's just that when I put together that Valentine card, I was taken aback with all we've been through together. And - if we are extremely fortunate - whatever we have ahead of us.

 

 

 

Thanksgiving Work Horses

Is it weird to be sentimental about kitchen appliances?

This was our first Thanksgiving in the new house, but I was surrounded by old favorites - my preferred roasting pan, my gravy separator, the dish I always use for the cranberry sauce.

The two items I'm feeling emotional about (yes, I know they are inanimate objects) are my double boiler and my Cuisinart. Let me explain.

First, there is NO better way to keep mashed potatoes warm and perfectly textured than a double boiler. I will truck no disagreement on this. This nifty kitchen tool is old as the hills - just nestle one pot over another pot of boiling water, and you will be rewarded with moist, lovely potatoes every time.

To be clear, I don't make them in the double boiler. I boil potatoes and then mash them with butter and warm milk in a bowl with another kitchen favorite - a metal potato masher - and then keep them warm in the double boiler, the oven being in serious competition for keeping the sweet potato casserole, the stuffing, and the roast veggies warm while the turkey is resting before it is carved.

ANYWAY, my late friend Missy gave me this double boiler, which she bought second-hand, and I think of her every time I use it.

Second, is that culinary jack-of-all-trades, the Cuisinart. Why would I feel sentimental about a machine? Longevity. We got this Cuisinart as a wedding gift and we've been married more than 40 years. Talk about a work horse. This puppy kept working decade after decade. 

But this Thanksgiving, I had trouble getting the lid to click into place. I think the parts have rheumatism or something. After a few tries, I finally jammed it close, but I think it has made it's last batch of orange cranberry sauce. The only "Black Friday" sale I indulged in this year was for a new Cuisinart that was 50% off. (Or half off the price they inflated it to a few weeks ago, anyway.) I feel a little guilty abandoning Old Faithful, after she served me so well and for so long.

Grateful for so many things this holiday - too numerous to list. But a few highlights in completely random order: heating pads, ginger bread, my adorable and hilarious granddaughter, a roof over my head, Dorothy Sayers mysteries, wood-burning fire places, and all the people who - against all odds -  work to make the world a better place.

 

 

Working Out Over the Decades

In the early 1980s, I regularly went to an aerobics class at the YMCA in Manhattan. It was taught by a member of the music group "The Village People" (the one who wore the Native American headdress, if you must know). The class always ended with a spirited version of their hit "YMCA" and we jumped up and down, shouting and  forming the letters with our arms.

Well, that was almost 40 years ago, but I was thinking about it this morning when I was at a different gym doing a low-impact weight workout. This workout is no joke, by the way - squats and planks and mountain climbers. Ouch.

Anyway, I was pondering the different reasons I've worked out over the decades. Sure, sure - we all know it's healthy to work out - good for your heart, lungs, etc. But that wasn't why I started.

Initially, it was all about losing weight. Later in my twenties and early thirties, it was about reclaiming my body from multiple pregnancies. In my 40s and 50s it was about feeling strong and empowered.

But now I have another very specific motivation - my 2-year-old, 25 pound granddaughter. I mean, when she outstretches her arms and says, "Up please, Grandma!" am I supposed to say, "Gee, I'd like to pick you up, but Grandma will feel it in her lower back later, so I better not." Then there's the opposite scenario of "up," which, of course,  is "Down please, Grandma." That's when she wants to play with me on the floor.  Grandma would like to refrain from too many grunts and moans when she attempts to get back up again.

This morning's class was taught by a very young woman who played what I would describe not so much as music but more assault noise. When I hear, "Let's keep those bodies bathing-suit ready, Ladies," I just inwardly role my eyes. That use to matter to me too. And don't get me wrong - vanity still partly motivates those trips to the gym. But the bigger prize is being able to life you-know-who. 

 

 

Sitting Here in Limbo

Jimmy Cliff, the great reggae singer, had a great song on his "Harder They Come album" called "Limbo." It was not about the dance but the concept of limbo - meaning an intermediate state or condition, an uncertain period awaiting a decision or resolution. Among choruses:

 

"I don't know where life will lead me
But I know where I've been
I can't say what life will show me
But I know what I've seen"

And...

"Sitting here in limbo
Waiting for the tide to flow
 Sitting here in limbo
 Knowing that I have to go"...

 

Anyway, the movers came today and will finish packing us up on Monday. They will leave our bed for one more night after that. We've been back and forth between our old house and our new one multiple times, ferrying carloads of stuff. I can't find a thing anymore at either place. 

 

Leaving a place you've lived in for 35 years is hard. And disorienting. And stressful.  But I'm keeping my eye on the prize, which is a lovely new home, proximity to my granddaughter, and a quieter life in a beautiful spot. 

 

But right now, I'm neither here nor there.

 

 

 

 

Big Dan's Moving Van

My little granddaughter has several favorite books she wants to hear over and over, including such scintillating titles as "Cars and Trucks" and "Giant Work Machines." This is the same little girl who likes to scoot backwards in the bathtub, saying "Beep! Beep! Beep!" to indicate that she is a "big truck" backing up.

But nothing has captured her recent attention more than "Big Dan's Moving Van." The book tells the story of a family that is moving from New York to California, and illustrates the process from start to finish. Any book that you read to a toddler say, oh, eight times in a row, gets tedious. But "Big Dan" also fills me with dread.

Soon our own movers will be arriving to load their van. The house is in a half-dressed state - packed boxes stuffed in closets and in the basement, empty drawers in some rooms; packed cabinets in others. 

All the books our granddaughter enjoys at our home used to belong to her Uncle Paul. But I may have to send "Big Dan's Moving Van" packing to her house. It hits just a little too close to home right now.

Remains of The Day

Everyone says that moving is extremely stressful, and Lord knows, I agree. I've been packing up the house we've lived in for the last 35 years, in anticipation of moving.

But I hadn't understood all the layers of stress. Because going through your stuff is essentially an archeological dig through different times in your life. One photo, or one letter, or one baked and glazed, lumpy clay bowl made by a child, is enough to send me flying back in time, and to experience all the emotions that come with that journey.

Today, I was packing in my office. You'd think that would be less provocative than other places, but it has it's own psychological  pull. I had kept dozens of magazines, because I had articles in each one. Mind you, I've published well over a thousand newspaper articles, but I'd thrown out those clippings  years ago. I know they are available on line, though at this point in the Times archives. But the magazines are different. This was a more difficult culling. Many of the magazines don't keep online archives.

Then there was publicity stuff around the book I wrote more than ten years ago now. I even came across posters announcing that I would be appearing to talk about my book at this library or at that event ...Yikes! Who was that?

Hours and hours of work - no wait, years and years of work, okay, technically decades of work - were scattered across my office floor. I ended up tearing my articles out of the magazines and recycling the rest. Everything that's left fits in three large boxes. I barely remember writing half of them.

So is this what a writing career comes down to - a few boxes which will likely stay in the basement of our new home anyway?

But then, you could say that about the entire house, where we raised a family. We're packing up the rooms we lived in, but that family still exists, and I wrote what I wrote. 

Still, this whole process is very disorienting.

 

When Mommy Comes to House Showings

When did it become a thing to bring your mother to a house showing? 

Our house has been on the market for three weeks, and I can't tell you how many times buyers have brought their moms to the showings. Now, as some readers know, one of our bids fell apart because the mom got "a sign" that the house wasn't right for her son and daughter-in-law. But she wasn't the only mom who has scuttled a deal. 

It's hard for me to wrap my head around this phenomenon, but I have several theories:

1. It's cultural. In many cultures, big life decisions often are made by the entire family. Americans tend to be far more individualistic, whereas in other countries families tend to work more as units. Funnily enough, when I told various friends about how our first deal fell through because the mother of the buyer had a bad feeling, I was asked each of the following: "Was she Greek?" "Was she Indian?" "Was she Chinese?" I only list these to show that this is not an uncommon family dynamic.

2.  It's financial. Let's face it: interest rates are through the roof. Even a family with two good incomes has to stretch to buy a home in a town with great public schools. There's the one-two punch of the cost of borrowing and the high taxes. Mom attends the showing, because Mom is helping to finance the purchase.

3.  It's helicopter parenting gone crazy. It wasn't enough that helicopter moms hovered over every decision from kindergarten onwards. Now they are helping to pick out homes for their grown offspring. I really hope I'm wrong about this one. By the way, I haven't seen or heard of any fathers tagging along -  just moms.

In any case, I continue to feel like an unwelcome guest in my own home. We have to keep everything pristine, leave no personal trace - be it  tooth brushes or a the tell tale coffee pot, and we have to vacate with two hours warning. We can't even pack because the house is staged and we have no place to hide the boxes.

On the random chance that you are a mother accompanying your adult child on a house hunting trip this week, please know that we have it on personal good authority that it's a great house and a wonderful place to raise a family. 

 

 

Shame - My House Is Acting During the Strike

SAG-AFTRA, the union that represents thousands of screen actors, has joined screenwriters who walked off the job in May. The writers and actors want a better contract, and also protection against artificial intelligence encroaching on their jobs.

For the record, I support both strikes and am not trying to trivialize the issues with this blog post. 

That said, my house seems to be crossing the picket line. That is, my house is being staged, and I now understand the implicit theatrics of the term. Basically, the idea is that your house (in this case the home I raised my family in; the home we've lived in for three and a half decades)  will now be transformed into the concept of a home. It is, essentially, an actor.

All signs that people actually live here are being stripped away. It began with the family photos, swept off the shelves and mantlepiece, and packed away. Goodbye smiling baby pics, triumphant photo of my son scoring a soccer goal in high school, sweet image of my daughter catching her first fish, Mike and me smiling on top of a mountain peak, wedding photos of both kids, grandchild pictures. 

Next, surfaces are cleared of remaining clutter. Many pieces of furniture are hauled to the basement, cabinets cleared out (why would you want actual china in a china cabinet?), antiques packed away and replaced with weird (to me) tall, white, skinny plastic vases and boxes. My colorful throws are packed away, replaced by strategically draped white ones. Did I mention white? White sheets on the bed. White towels. White lamps. (Not ours, but loans by the realtor.)

Remaining furniture is rearranged in ways that have nothing to do with actual living. End tables are gone, and I almost dropped my coffee mug into thin air yesterday, forgetting there was no longer anything to rest it on. Bathroom shelves are empty, save for one tasteful straw basket -holding nothing. My brush and comb live inside a drawer, because my bureau top is cleared of everything except a fake plant. (Again, not ours.)

Oh, did I mention that all the curtains have been taken down? The morning sunlight makes a beeline for my bedroom pillow at 6 am. They let us keep the bed, but had us pack up the dust ruffle, and comforter.

I know, I know. This is a first world problem. I'm selling my house and moving to another, and this is all about getting the best price.

And I get it. Buyers need to be able to project their own lives on a blank slate of a house. They don't want to wander around in someone else's clutter, with someone else's taste. 

Thirty five years is a lot of time to accumulate stuff. Thirty five years is also a lot of time to accumulate memories. 

Letting my house pretend to be another house is just another step in saying goodbye.

 

 

 

 

 

Second Time Around

When I had my first baby, my husband took the morning off. I had a scheduled caesarian section, and he was not permitted in the operating room. But while they sewed me up, the nurse carried our newborn daughter into the room where my husband was waiting, and placed her in his arms. At least he got to meet her right away. Then he went back to work.

My son-in-law got three months of paternity leave when my granddaughter was born. He was there through the delivery, and was involved in baby care since day one. 

Holding my granddaughter for the first time evoked a rush of unimaginable love. Watching my husband hold this tiny human brought up a set of more confused feelings. Of course he got teary-eyed as soon as soon as he held her. Seeing him cradle her filled me with tenderness. 

Like me, my daughter ended up with a c-section. She was sore and exhausted, nursing day and night. No one could help her with that. But she did have her husband, her mom and her dad around, to spell her with the baby, cook, clean, and do laundry. It made me wistful. To be clear, I was not jealous - I was thrilled that she had support. But it made me think about what had been missed.

While I could have used the help back then, I think the one who really missed out was my husband. Of course there was no such thing as paternity leave back in 1985, any more than there was any discussion of "work/life balance."

My husband was worked long hours, with a long commute, and high expectations. He didn't have the luxury of cuddling our daughter much, and often got home after she was in her crib. Eventually, I went back to work myself, but it was part-time and I never felt shortchanged on time with daughter, or later, with my son.

Last night, we had dinner with our daughter, son-in-law and granddaughter. Now a toddler, the little one adores her granddad, and breaks out into a huge smile when she spots him. She can say something approximating "granddad." And, oh, how he enjoys that little girl.

As we were driving home, he talked a little about how happy he is that he now has the time to enjoy her babyhood. I've heard this from other grandfathers in our generation. I'm thinking in a way, it's kind of a big do-over for Baby Boomer dads who rarely got this opportunity.

I think I feel an article coming on.....

 

In Her Shoes

Babysitting our 19-month old granddaughter this weekend. I think we may have overdone it today - a trip to the library this morning, a trip to an animal sanctuary this afternoon, and a stop at the playground on the way back. Meals, diaper changes, play time, bath time.

I just put her in the crib, and she fell asleep without a whimper.

I'm beyond exhausted myself. But it's the happiest kind of tired there is.

Above are the Little One's shoes next to her granddad's. The contrast caught my eye. So grateful. 

 

Five Top Ways to Recognize a Toxic Blog Post!

Please, please, please - can we retire the word "toxic" from our daily vocabulary? Toxic people, toxic relationships, toxic workplaces. How many articles have been published along the lines of "10 Ways to Realize You Are in a Toxic Relationship" or "Five Traits of Toxic People!" ENOUGH ALREADY! 

Frankly, I believe the only people who can accurately be described as "toxic" are those that have inadvertently consumed pesticides or been exposed to radiation. 

Yet the "toxic" label is slapped onto people and situations that are...well, what, exactly? The term covers the gamut of objectionable behavior. "Toxic" people are negative, mean, harsh, narcissistic, critical, and judgmental. Toxic places  make you feel uncomfortable, anxious or unhappy.

The only way to deal with such toxic people and situations is cut them out of your life, in the name of your own mental health. It's seen as a brave thing to do.

Never mind that those who have been consigned to the hazardous waste dump may have no idea why they've been dismissed from your life. Nor do they have an opportunity to understand or change, let alone apologize, because they've been blocked from communication.

Trust me,  I have difficult people in my life who wear me down and make me feel bad. I'm guessing that there have also been times in my life that I've worn someone else out with my demands, hurt their feelings with my comments, and generally been someone others don't want to be around.

But there is not a sub-category of human beings who are toxic. There are people who are very bad at dealing with feelings of anger, fear, and inadequacy. Some far worse than others. There are also people who are bad at confrontation, stating their needs, maintaining boundaries and finding compromise. 

Let's stop with the labels and try to find a little compassion on all sides. 

Because dismissing someone as "toxic" is...well, toxic behavior.

 

 

 

 

The More Things Change....

I collect old magazines. Since I write semi-regularly for Good Housekeeping, I was particularly thrilled to come across this November, 1930 issue.

It's a veritable wealth of great material, particularly the ads.  One asks, "Is he still the man you married?" and goes on, "Do you notice a little too much droop in his shoulders? Is he inclined to be just a little irritable when the soup isn't quite as hot as it might be...when the children are just a trifle too exuberant...or when he can't find the evening paper?" The solution: Post Bran Flakes will soon endow him with new vigor and enjoyment of life! It also turns out you can wash your window shades, according to an ad from DuPont, but let's get to the magazine's editorial pages, which swing decidedly feminist.

I  particularly enjoyed an article titled, "The Men We Elect."

Keep in mind women had only had the right to vote for 10 years when this was published. The author, a woman, writes: "It can not fail, to say the least, to be shocking to the sentiments of the high-minded citizen that the day has arrived when the conduct of law-making bodies in this country have become a subject of light jest  by press and people, and often, indeed, of caustic criticism amounting almost to scorn."

Imagine if she could have foreseen our current state of politics.

The writer goes on to acknowledge that Congress has examples of great statesmanship and in "every state legislature may be found public servants whose mental caliber and moral fiber have been tried by fire and not found wanting." Alas, she has also witnessed "discussions develop into undignified personal bickering totally unrelated to any measure before the house for consideration." As for the Senate, "the people's business waited as  distinguished members indulged in vitriolic wrangling over the relative merits of men whose names public gossip had advanced as potential candidates for presidency."

Herbert Hoover was president at the time. He would be succeeded by Franklin Roosevelt in 1932.

Her analysis of public policy then goes on for more than 5000 words. In the end, she comes up with this: "Men from time immemorial generously have credited women with superior spiritual qualities and a keen sense of spiritual values. If indeed they are entitled to that high estimate, how vastly elevating and wholesome an influence may they wield in legislative halls, and through the employment of those faculties influence beneficently the laws of the land!"

Well, we now have women serving in the House and the Senate, but 93 years on, we're still waiting on our first female president.

Next I am going to read "300 Great Women" - part of a contest run by the magazine to name the greatest 12 living American women - "native-born or naturalized." The disconnect between the adds and the editorial content is striking.

 

Thoughts on An Aging Parent

When I tell people that my Mom is 99 years old, I get two kinds of responses. 

The first is along these lines: "Bless her! You are so lucky to have her!"

This sentiment is always from people who do not have really, really old parents. In order not to be perceived as a horrible human being, I respond, "Oh yes. I'm so lucky."

The second response goes like this:

"Oh my God! You must be exhausted!" Just this week, my dentist asked, "Do you still have your Mom?" and when I told him that I did, he said, "You must be drinking heavily!"

I love my dentist.

I also love my 99-year-old mother. I see her every week, talk to her every day, oversee her finances and serve as her health proxy.

Bette Davis famously said, "Old age ain't no place for sissies." She died when she was 80. Ninety nine is a whole different story. My poor Mom is struggling. Lots of things hurt and her body parts are failing. She's legally blind, extremely hard of hearing and has trouble digesting food. Lately she's been hearing an imaginary military band and a deep baritone voice singing every evening. But mostly she's pretty sharp, listening to the news and audio books and fully aware of her physical decline.

Overall, it is a sad and stressful time. I keep dreaming that my teeth are falling out, landing in my hand like little bloody Chiclets. I consulted Chat Open AI (just as reliable as Dr. Google) and it tells me: 

"Dreaming that your teeth are falling out is a common dream that many people experience. It can be a very disturbing and frightening dream, and it is often associated with feelings of anxiety, helplessness, or loss of control."

Oh. What else is new?

 

 

Highlights of The Week

SUNDAY: Spent the day with my 99-year-old Mom in the Emergency Room. She is okay, for now. Let's just say it was stressful.

MONDAY: Skin cancer treatment for me, with medication and red light. Hot and unpleasant.

TUESDAY: Face is as red as a a fire engine, itching beyond belief. I am not supposed to go outside for 48 hours. Just as well, as I would frighten small children.

WEDNESDAY: Face still hideous - now blistering - and uncomfortable.

Meanwhile, Mom now accuses me to having taken her to the front of a war in a military transport vehicle. (She is referring to the ambulance.) Also claims that her cat's tail has mysteriously gotten shorter. 

THURSDAY: My website is attacked and disabled by malware. It's beyond my expertise to fix. Repair is $$$. 

Also Thursday: Cut my finger with a vegetable peeler while peeling fresh ginger. It bleeds all over everything, including through multiple bandages and iced wash clothes. This goes on for three hours. I start an interview someone for an article I'm writing for Good Housekeeping, but I'm bleeding all over my computer keyboard, and have to cut it short.

Basically, house looks like a crime scene. Everywhere I go, I leave a trail. And I'm getting dizzy.

Finally go to Urgent care where they fix me up, though I am mortified that I have showed up with what is essentially a bad boo-boo on my finger. After bandaging it up, they put what looks for all the world like a tiny condom on it. I can't get it wet for 48 hours.

FRIDAY: Well, I'm writing this on Friday. Face is now covered with deep red blotches.Notice from Security Company that they are unable to remove malware. I am supposed to drive upstate today, but given my track record for the week, I may get a ride with a friend. First must check in on how my Mom is today. 

To quote the now-wildly politically incorrect Scarlett O'Hara, "Tomorrow is another day."

 

Baby, We Were Born To Grandparent

 I've been writing for AARP a lot lately and, if  I do say so myself, I love their publications. That said, I often find myself shocked at who qualifies for senior. Mind you,  membership starts at age 50, but that means folks like Rachel Maddow, Kristen Wiig and Jude Law, along with others I think of as "young," are joining the ranks.

Anyhow, classic rockers like Bruce, Bob Dylan, all the Rolling Stones, the Who, etc. etc. have been eligible for AARP membership decades. Still, I was especially excited to read in another oldster publication ("Grand" for grandparents) that Bruce Springsteen  and Patti Scialfa became first-time grandparents last summer.  At ages 73 and 69 respectively, they aren't even young grandparents.

Evidently Patti told Bruce she does NOT want to be called "grandma," by her granddaughter, Lily.  Bruce, on the other hand, says his granddaughter can call him anything but "The Boss."

Personally, I have no problem being called "grandma" but have now decided I'd prefer my own little granddaughter to start addressing me as "The Boss."  

I suspect this will not past muster with her parents.

Today's 100-Year Journey

Okay, I'm exaggerating. It was only a 98-year-journey.

What I mean is that this morning my husband and I drove north about 45 minutes to snag an hour with our 1-year-old granddaughter. There's nothing better  than watching her little face light up with delight when we walk in the door. Except maybe when she follows the beaming smile with her arms outstretched for a big cuddle.

When we got back home, I turned around and drove 30 minutes south to spend time with my Mom, who turns 99 next month. We had lunch together and pursued our usual afternoon activities - going through the mail, checking the bills, browsing catalogues, trading stories and gossiping. 

There are similarities in the two visits. When I spend time with my granddaughter, I am mostly sitting, crawling or lying on the floor, playing. When I see my Mom, I'm mostly lying down on the bed next to her. My granddaughter makes me laugh, and I can also crack her up. My Mom and I also have a lot of laughs.

I need to keep a good eye on both of them.

Today my mom talked about her grandparents. My Mom is southern and I love hearing the family names - her grandmother was Idabelle, and she had an Uncle Beau, Aunt Loralee and Aunt Margurite. My granddaughter will likely attend school with children named Oynx, Clover and Bowie. (I'm not making up these names - they are among the fastest growing for babies in the US born between 2020 and 2021.)

It's hard for me to wrap my head around the fact that there is almost a century between my Mom and my granddaughter. I wish my Mom was could see this beautiful baby, but alas, she is legally blind and can only make out a blonde blur. I hope my granddaughter will remember having a great grandmother in her life, but it's unlikely.

Anyway, for now, they are the north and south poles of my life. And I feel the tug on both ends.

 

 

 

Watching Your Kid Be a Parent

My baby's baby is sick.

It's nothing serious. My granddaughter has a stomach bug and this, too, shall pass. Of course I hate to see the little girl under the weather. But I have to also admit that it's been amazing to watch my daughter parent her ailing little one. 

Growing up my daughter had an aversion to illness, particularly stomach sickness. She could barely tolerate the sight or smell. Yesterday she texted after she'd gotten the baby down. She was heading to the shower because her hair and shirt were splashed with baby puke. It was a non-issue; all she wanted was the baby to feel better. When we talked later, my daughter was calm and loving, concerned but not panicking. 

None of this should surprise me. That's who she is.

A friend recently told me that there were three joys of being a grandparent. One, the child itself, Delicious beyond words. Two, seeing your child as a parent. And three - this is more subtle - seeing the joy on your kid's face when he or she sees the joy that the baby brings you. So true.

Watching my daughter become a wonderful Mom has brought me a level of happiness and pride I could never have imagined. I'm so, so grateful I can experience this. And I'm going to visit tomorrow - to give both of them a hug.

 

Estrangement

For the last two weeks, I've been working on a magazine story about estrangement between adult children and their parents. Researching the article really frightened me. 

Mostly it was scary because many of  the parents I spoke to were completely blindsided when their adult kid cut off communication. Not only were they shocked, but also these parents soon realized they were helpless. If your adult kid wants nothing more to do with you, you have zero power to address it. Your calls may be blocked and your written entreaties ignored or returned. If grandchildren are involved, it's an extra dollop of pain on top of an already gut-wrenching situation.

Every relationship is complicated, and adults who no longer want a relationship with their parents may have reasons that justify such a drastic response.  It seems there's a huge range of behaviors that can instigate a rift, ranging from horrible childhood sexual and physical abuse to a more amorphous idea of "toxic parenting." That last category can be a catchall for all sorts of behavior.

As I write this, I just finished making my creamed spinach with jalapeno casserole for the Christmas dinner. More dishes are to come. My son and his wife are sitting in our living room, laughing and enjoying the warmth of a roaring fire in the fireplace. I've been texting with my daughter, who is trying to get her own daughter down for a nap. They will arrive on Christmas morning - they don't live far. 

I can't help thinking about those parents for whom the holiday is a time of sadness and longing. I tell myself that this would never happen to me. But then, just about every parent I interviewed commented, "I never imagined this could happen to me. We were so close."

All right, it's now time to be grateful for what I do have, instead of worrying about what I could lose.

Wishing everyone a lovely holiday.

Yikes!

I'm writing this from my daughter and son-in-law's house. On Tuesday, at about 3 am (okay, I guess technically it was Wednesday morning) a huge pine tree fell, just missing the bedroom and clipping the front porch. It sounded like an explosion. We have not had power since then. This afternoon the house was a brisk 48 degrees and getting colder. 

Too tired to write more, but so grateful for family, kind neighbors and a warm place to sleep. Power restoration not yet in sight.

Veterans Day Almost 80 Year Later

I'm writing this on Veteran's Day, one when I always think of my late Dad. Like so many of his generation, he fought in WWII, and had, as they said back then, "a hard war." I know my Dad liberated at least one concentration camp, but he only talked about his service towards the end of his life.

He was the most loving and caring  father imaginable. Still, I remember when I was a little girl, if I came to my Dad in the middle of the night after a bad dream and woke him from a deep sleep, he would jump to his feet and shout, "Who goes there?!"  

He's pictured above with his own father. (Dad is on the right.) I'm guessing the photo is from 1943, though he'd enlisted the year before. 

Recently I came across an amazing treasure in an old box in my Mom's attic. It is small brown leather book, with a military seal and the word "Buddies" embossed on the cover. The title page reads, "My Record of Friends in the Service."

Above it, my Dad has scribbled:

Sworn in August 29, 1942, Inducted March 24, 1943, at Ft. Devens, MA.

April 2 to 710 (Claridge) aaFTTC, Atlantic City, N.J.  May 22, '43 Camp Crowder, Mo. July 20 to University of Wyoming, Laramie, Wyo. Aug.10 -to ASTP, Madison, Wisc. March 17, '44 Fort Coster, Mich. March 27, '44 to Camp McCoy, Wisc.

Later he would be in Germany, France and Poland, and then back in Germany. But his buddies' signatures were all from the time he was still stateside. They include names, home address, service address, and comments. My favorite are the entries for "service address," because these boys didn't yet know where they'd be shipped.

Here's a sampling: "Ask the Father, the Son and the ol' Holy Grail," "The world at large," "Somewhere cold." "I wish I knew," "Hell if I know, Don. We're all acquainted with the inscrutable ways of the army," and finally, the straightforward:  "Hell." 

The dates of the entries begin in July of 1943 and end in October of 1944. My Dad would have been 19 years old at the start. Here are a few entries for the comments, which I think speak for the time, circumstances, and themselves. 

"It was great knowing you, Stone. i'm sorry we had to part in such an abrupt manner. But as two great soldiers we must pursue our respective courses. We have responsibilities we must face. I'll take the blonde on the right. Hope we may meet again."

"Stoneface, you're a good kid."

"It's always tough leaving after you get to know a guy you like. I'll be expecting to hear from you and show you some California babes after the war. Good luck Stoney. KP Kid."

"I love life. I love mating. I love beautiful things. But how I hate my draft board."

"May the partnership always come out ahead, even after this mess called a war is over."

"To my Roomie - may you be as lucky in every thing as you were in not getting caught by the O.D. after lights out."

My favorite: "I think you're already grown up, Don, if you give yourself a chance. In some ways you're more of a man than I'll ever be. Always remember your mind. That's our one personal possession they can't take away - and it's priceless. Good luck!"

There's so much more. Of course I don't know which of these men survived the war. But I'm grateful to every man and woman who has defended our democracy.

 

Looks Can Be Deceiving

Today these two got their claws trimmed at the vet's. 

When they were brought out of the exam room after what should have been a routine tech visit, there was carnage. 

"If you see blood on one of the little vixens, it's mine," my vet told me, as she handed me one of the carriers. Sure enough, her palms were covered with bleeding scratches. Then one of the techs came out. Her forearm was covered with red streaks from cat claws. Another tech came out just shaking his head.

In the end it took four people to trim each cat's claws. (I mean four per cat, if that's not clear.) I felt absolutely terrible. I love my vet and her practice. They kept telling me not to worry about it, but I do. These knuckleheads, Van Gogh and Lily, aka Thing One and Thing Two, aka Frick and Frack, aka Feline Demons from Hell, transform from (relatively) normal cats into full feral animals when they go to the vet.

Now they are lying around the house like nothing at all happened. But I am ashamed of them. 

Birthday Thoughts

 
It's not quite 8 pm on my birthday, and I'm snuggled onto our family room couch, post-dinner. My husband is also on the couch (it's a big one - deep and forest green) perusing his phone. One cat is hanging out at my feet; the other is curled up on the floor.

In years past, I would just be gearing up to celebrate. Or out dining at a nice restaurant. I'd be dressed up and made up. I'd be excited - I've always loved birthdays.

I still do, but my tastes have changed. Today I wanted to celebrate by spending time outside and spending time with family. We went up to a beautiful public garden in the Hudson Valley, where we met my daughter and granddaughter for a walk around the grounds. Then we went back to my daughter's house for lunch, snuggle and play time with "Little," as I call her.

Came home, had a nice long phone catch-up with my son who lives out in California. Opened gifts, talked to my Roomie (freshman college roommate and oldest friend), spoke to both my siblings and my (98 1/2 !) year old Mom, and got lots of lovely birthday  messages. Take-out dinner and a cupcake with a candle in it for dessert.

Meanwhile, I'm going WILD by having a glass AND A HALF of wine. Bedtime, of course, will not be late. So, sure, I'm getting older. But I also know what I treasure in this life. 

 

Mama Mia!

"Don't forget about your old mother while you enjoy that baby."

That was ten minutes ago, in a phone call from my (yep, 98 1/2 year-old) mother. As she spoke, I had my eye on the video baby monitor my daughter and her husband left for us. We are babysitting our 10-month-old granddaughter for five days, while her parents are away. She is starting to stir from her nap.

The baby is a doll. Sweet, good natured, and her parents have her on a relatively strict schedule with meals, naps and bedtime, complete with accompanying routines, which makes taking care of the little one extra easy. But she is a 10-month-old and she is on the move.

"I'm worried that they'll just open up the new Covid boosters to all ages, and they'll be a mad rush," my Mom is saying. " I don't want to wait in line."

"Mom, I think you'll be able to get the booster easily. They aren't expecting a shortage. It will be available at your drug store."

"Not my drug store," she insisted. "I want to go to the hospital and I was hoping you could arrange an appointment for me."

Sigh. Now the baby is squawking. 

[Fifteen minutes and one serious diaper change later]

Where was I? Baby is up and about. She is having a standoff with our cats. They don't know what to make of each other. I can't leave them together, because the baby could grab the cat's face, fur or tail, and then the cat might scratch her.

Wait - must go hard boil an egg for baby's lunch. Grandad will watch her. And I need to get Fedex package ready - tax papers to my Mom's accountant. I think baby may have just eaten a dust bunny.

Serena is playing again tonight at 7 pm. Hope I can stay up. Oh man, my inbox is blowing up. Baby's clothes are ready for the dryer. She sure goes through a lot of outfits. Hold on...she's crawling out of sight. Okay, she's back. She is clawing at the cats' scratch pad. Well, I didn't want to trim her nails anyway.

Mom on phone. Does she have appointment yet? Is it possible the baby is hungry again? I have nicknamed her "Groceries." Oh boy, she has got a hold of one of her grandfather's shoes and is trying to eat the laces. 

Wait, what was I blogging about? Gotta go....

 

 

Formula for Success

You know how dozens of news headlines pass before your eyes every day, and you get overwhelmed? And how you are saturated with emotion over the war in Ukraine and the constant mass shootings in this country and the January 6 hearings and how close our Democracy was - and maybe still is - to collapsing?  And how because of all this, you sometimes  skip other important stories because - well, you can only take so much?

Well, such was the case with the Baby Formula Shortage. I knew about it. It sounded terrible. But I didn't spend much time on it.

Until, that is, my granddaughter needed some. My daughter has been nursing her 9-month-old, but now the baby needs supplemental formula. To make matters more challenging, the little one has allergies to milk and soy and cannot drink regular formula.

My poor daughter was so stressed that I told her I would go on the hunt for the formula. Of course I was cocky - in my family, I'm known as "The Border Collie" - I can round anything up. 

Holy Cow! First, there is nothing available online. At best, you can get on an email list for the manufacturer to notify you when supplies again become available. 

Next, I started visiting pharmacies and grocery stores that sell formula. It was like looking for Clorox wipes or Lysol during the first year of Covid. Picked over or empty shelves. Some stores just had cards in the baby food aisle, which you presented to the person at check out. The formula was kept behind the cash register, with the cigarettes and lottery cards. Except they didn't have any. Other places kept what little formula was available under lock and key. And NONE of them had formula for babies with allergies.

I finally lucked out at Target, where I found a can of the powdered, generic version. And at that store, like every other one I visited, the formula was rationed, with only two or three (depending on the store) bottles or cans per customer.

I know I'm incredibly late to this shortage, and that parents across the country have been suffering.

I'd ask "What's next?" but I truly don't want to know the answer to that question.

 

 

 

Too Hot to Cook Pasta

It's not so hot out, but our air conditioning broke, and after making a somewhat labor-intensive dinner last night, I couldn't face multiple boiling pots and a hot oven tonight.

I hear by offer "Too Hot To Cook Summer Pasta." Yes, you need to boil water and cook and drain the pasta, but that's the only heat-related step.

Recipe: A couple of hours before you intend to serve dinner-

-Mince several cloves of garlic. I used four, but we are a garlic loving family. You might want to keep it to two or three cloves. I'm writing this after dinner and we all have horrendous breath. 

-Put the garlic in a large bowl. 

-Pour roughly a quarter cup of good quality of olive oil over the garlic.

-Chop up a couple of large, ripe summer tomatoes. I used 3. Try to get the seeds out when you chop. Add to the bowl.

-Dice roughly 1/2 pound of (preferably fresh) mozzarella cheese. Add to bowl.

-Tear up fresh basil leaves from one medium size bunch of basil. Throw in bowl.

-Season with salt and pepper, and then stir the whole thing together. Cover with some kind of cling wrap and let sit at room temperature for a couple of hours.

-When you're ready for dinner, cook the pasta. You can use any kind you like. Use a pound. I only had linguine, which I broke in half before I cooked it.

-When the pasta is ready, toss it with the sauce you made earlier. The hot pasta will mostly melt the mozzarella and the whole thing will come together beautifully. If needed, add more olive oil and salt and pepper.

This dish also works with brie cheese, but if you go that route, take the rind off.

Happy Summer!

 

 

On The One Hand....

  I'm writing this on the Friday evening of the July 4 weekend. 

    On the one hand, I'm beyond excited about a long-planned family get together. We are going with my kids, their spouses, my granddaughter and my beloved brother-in-law to the Adirondacks. It's been a long time since we've been under one roof. My favorite people will be together in my favorite place.

    On the other hand, my son and daughter-in-law have been stuck in Chicago for 5+ hours. Nothing like trying to get a connecting flight in the summer on a holiday weekend. I'm worried they won't make it, and our time together will be shortened. Also, I'm worried about...oh...everything.

    On the one hand, I look at my little granddaughter and feel full of love, gratitude and hope.

    On the other hand, I look at the Supreme Court and feel despair. And fear for said granddaughter's future, planet earth and....you know, everything.

    I'll feel better when they take off. And land. And my husband gets them safely home from the airport. And we all get safely up to the Adirondacks.

    On the other hand....

    Wishing everyone a Happy and Healthy July 4th!

    

    

Pinging Between The Generations

Yesterday morning, I visited with my seven-month-old granddaughter. I hadn't seen her in about 10 days, and marveled at how much she'd changed in that short period. She was sitting up unaided. She was developing manual dexterity in her fingers, able to pick up a blueberry. Her hair is growing in a lighter color.

Sometimes watching her, I feel like I can see the little neurons firing and connecting.

Yesterday afternoon, I spent time with my 98-year-old mother. She is losing things as my granddaughter is gaining things, though not nearly at the same rate. On Wednesday, I took her to the doctor, who had her stand up, stand on her toes, lift each leg and do a few other physical things; all the while she told him about the latest audio book she was listening to.

"You are amazing," the doctor told my Mom.

"Everyone keeps telling me I'm amazing for my age," she responded. "That's great, except I can't see, I can't hear, I can't digest my food and my friends are all dead."

Well, I actually think that both the baby and my mom are amazing, in their own ways. But what's wrong with me that I don't feel as feisty as either one of them? After visits with both, I'm exhausted.

Babysitting Our Granddaughter

Well, no this isn't us. But I'm mindful of Internet privacy issues around posting kids' images, so instead, here's a baby-related photo I recently took. (If you live nearby,  it's a great time to visit the baby animals at Muscoot Farm.)

Yesterday, my husband and I had our first all-day babysitting job for our 6 month old granddaughter. And tomorrow she spends the night at our house. Although we all lived together as we got through Covid, these are our first solo ventures in babysitting for any length of time.

I had to smile when my daughter sent an email with detailed instructions on how to and when to feed the baby, change her diaper, put her down for her nap, etc. I mean, I did raise two children. Still, I'm rusty, so it was helpful to have it spelled out. Not to mention the fact that baby safety protocol has changed considerably since I was a young Mom. Other things that have changed:

• The ease with which I can sit on the floor, play on the floor, and get up from the floor. Then there is getting up from the floor while holding a baby. I pride myself on being in pretty good shape, but yikes!
• Soothing a teething baby. No more frozen bagels, baby numbing gel, or Zwieback biscuits. Non-toxic, frozen teething rings are the way to go.
• Babies are put down on their backs in the crib. (In my day, it was the stomach.) The said, little Annie kept flipping over, and for extra fun, would get her feet caught between the slats.
• Which brings me to the video baby monitor. I could clearly see what Annie was doing with a blue tooth device no bigger than an iPhone.  Back in the day, I had a kind of squawk box from Fisher Price.  Large, plastic and beige, it crackled loudly, but if the baby was really howling, you could hear it. 

What absolutely has not changed is that heart-melting gummy smile that a baby gets when she recognizes you. The important stuff transcends the generations.