Perfect Love: Arriving in April

by Chris Brady

Perfect love sometimes does not come until the first grandchild.
                                                                                                    ~Welsh Proverb
 

The reality of becoming a grandmother has been percolating in my mind since learning my daughter-in-law was expecting. And now it is even more real as we know the baby is a girl. I have six months to study up on grand-parenting. 

And I can't help but wonder, what kind of grandmother will I be.

I have great role models: my mom and my mother-in-law come easily to mind.  Each in her own way forged strong bonds with my son, spending a lot of quality time with him. My mom was the first phone call when school would phone me that he was sick and I was stuck at work. And my mother-in-law would take him for spring break in Florida and a summer week in North Carolina. He hit the mother-lode in grandmothers.

A granddaughter seems like such a gift to me as a mother of a son. I recall my own

Nannie and me circa 1960.

experience as a granddaughter, and memories of my maternal grandmother “Nannie” still make me smile.

She wasn’t a cool grandmother in the modern sense, and I can’t say that she imparted any great wisdom that guided my decisions (more likely I wasn’t paying attention). But I remember her presence throughout my life, and I treasure the things we did together, just her and me.

I used to stay overnight with her a few days a week when I was in high school. She was about 85 at the time, living with my aunt, who was often away. We would walk to the Acme, which was about a half mile away, to shop for dinner. This involved crossing the six lanes of the Roosevelt Boulevard with no traffic light. When I would hesitate at the sight of oncoming traffic she would jog into the street in her black old lady shoes fearless of the danger, pulling me along for the run.

 “They wouldn't dare hit an old lady,” she proclaimed. And three lanes of cars would stop for us, with not a beep out of them.  

I won't be running in traffic with my new granddaughter, but I hope we share some adventures together so that she can smile about our time together after I'm gone.
 
Arriving in April 2015, she has no idea how much love awaits her.

Share your grandmother stories so that I learn from the pros.

Cousins Lost and Found: How Do You Stay Connected?

My cousin Tommy Robinson, at the cottage of my ancestors. 

Chris Brady

I spent a workweek in Ireland recently. I called my cousin Tommy and his wife Eileen, who live in County Mayo, to let them know I was in the country (about three counties West of their home.)   We agreed to meet near Galway for dinner (a two-hour drive for them). It had been almost two years since our last chat, but we picked up the conversation like it was yesterday.

I found Tommy through a U.S. cousin as I planned my first trip to Ireland in 1998. Like many Irish Americans, I wanted to learn about my family tree. (It's an industry there.) I reconnect when I return to Ireland for business, and we meet for lunch or dinner and sometimes an overnight stay.  It’s been fun for me to get to know them.

My dad's great-grandfather, the first John Robinson.

Our great grandfathers were brothers.  Our families separated when mine immigrated to America, and his stayed in Ireland. Tommy has given me a rich story of my father’s family; he still lives on the land where our great-grandfathers were raised. I have visited the cemetery and the church and the castle of the English lord who owned the land my ancestors farmed.

The two times that I was able to visit his home, he sent out word to the family and six people came to meet me at the local pub. Our families seem really similar in terms of values, marriage, children, education and socio-economic status. It makes me wonder what my life would have been like had I been raised in Ireland.

Tommy is surprised that I don’t see my cousins who live within a few miles of my house as often as I see him. He chided me for not keeping in touch with a distant NJ cousin who visits him in Ireland. She’s a lovely person, but he is the only reason we know each other.  I think about all the other people I've lost touch with.

Feeling Guilty about Loosing Touch

I have so many family members I don’t see anymore. We’re not estranged because of a family feud; our lives just don’t intersect. I have four aunts and two uncles, and 28 first cousins (not counting spouses). They are all good people, and we have fun when we see each other, but three generations have been born since my childhood. We spend our time and attention on siblings, nieces and nephews now, and there’s not a lot of time left over after that.

Welsh cousins reunion -2010

We have occasional family reunions, but too often, our meeting place is at funerals, We trade snippets of our lives, a hug and a kiss, and it’s farewell until next time.

I will be spending time with a favorite cousin in a few weeks. I’ll be in California on vacation, where she lives. She stays with me when she visits Philadelphia. She and her sister are the cousins who have become friends, and interestingly, they live the farthest away. The difference is that we have made an effort to visit each other, and the visits have strengthened the bonds.  

Writing this passage has me thinking about my aunts and uncles; it’s been far too long that I've made a visit, and at their ages (mid-80's) it's up to me to reach out. It will be good to see them again, almost as a way to connect to my late father, who was their oldest brother. I'll give credit to their Irish cousin Tommy Robinson, whose interest in me made me think about the treasure of family members I am missing right at home.  (It’s in writing now; I have to follow through.)

As you have grown older, how have you kept ties with aunts and uncles, cousins and other extended family members? Share your stories.  

Praise Godmothers!

                                            

Do you know who your godmother is?  Are you a godmother?  

I started pondering these questions just before Mother’s Day.  I had gone to the greeting card department of my favorite health and beauty aids store, to buy cards for my mother and my godmother.  While there was a plethora of cards for Mom, Mother, Wife, Aunt, etc., I couldn’t find a card specifically for my godmother.  It wasn’t that the cards were out of stock:  there wasn’t even a section for godmothers.  When I asked the cashier about it, she drew a blank.

 “I wouldn’t even think to send a card to my godmother,” was all she could offer.

So, I did a little research on the Hallmark card website.  I found only two godmother cards for Mother’s Day, along with one card for the godmother at a baptism.  Further research on the web, particularly Wikipedia, proved to be a little more fruitful on the subject…although the first thing that came up when I googled “godmothers” was the restaurant in Cape May!

The tradition of godparents seems to have begun with the Christians, although even the various Christian faiths differ on the importance of godparents and who can be a godparent.  Most agree, however, that godparents are entrusted with the spiritual care of their godchild. In the secular realm, godparents are chosen to step in as legal guardians upon the demise of the parents. Godmothers are the female component of the godparent team.  Quite a big job.  One would think there would be more cards for that.

Compounding the godmother confusion, of course, are fairy godmothers.  I would guess that most of us these days first think of the Disney version.  I know Hallmark does:  one of the two available godmother cards is illustrated by Cinderella’s Disney fairy godmother.  Which may not be bad.  At least Disney has kept godmothers in the public’s eye, if only in the fairy variety. (I’m not even touching the media image of godfathers!)  Still, there are similarities:  fairy godmothers and real godmothers wait in the wings to swoop to the rescue when necessary.

I admit that I haven’t taken my own godmother duties terribly seriously.  I am a three-time godmother, although in two cases I am really an absentee.  I was first a godmother to my cousin’s son, Evan, whom I probably would not recognize today.  Though I kept in contact with my cousin and her family for awhile when her children were young, we seem to have gone separate ways without even meaning to.  Second, I am godmother to my friend’s daughter, Kimberly.  Less absent there, thank goodness, as I do see Kimberly and her mom a few times a year.  My niece, Riley, is my third godchild, and I see her quite often, thanks to the myriad family gatherings that come from having three sisters and eight nieces and nephews.  I am sure I would have stepped up to the task if called upon to assume my godmotherly duties but, I am happy to admit, it looks like I am off the hook.

My own godmother is my Aunt Ann and, I am sure, quite relieved she never had to assume responsibility for my soul.  I must admit, though, there were times I felt comforted knowing I had someone “in reserve” in case I ever needed her. Although we are not inordinately close, Aunt Ann and I have kept in contact most of my lifetime.  I chat with her at our family gatherings, spent a week or two with her each summer when I was a pre-teen (before jobs, cars, boys), and was even close to her daughter for awhile. This year, I really wanted to send her a special card because her own family is now gone:  she lost both her daughter and her husband to cancer, and her brother (my father) and sister are also deceased. 

The best I could send was a Mother’s Day card For My Aunt, but it just didn’t measure up.       

Mother-in-Law Spring Training Begins

Chris Brady

Last Saturday, my son proposed to his beloved and she said "yes."  

"Yikes," I thought. I am going to be a mother-in-law (MIL)

For the record: I am happy about the woman my son has found to share his life.  She could not be lovelier if I had dreamed her character for a novel. Like that famous movie line, "She makes him want to be a better man."

I think about what lies ahead: the wedding, first house, babies, and all that goes with creating their own family. 

And as the mother of the son, I wonder: how will I fit into their story?

That song from the 60s plays in continuous loop in my head.

The worse person I know.

Mother in law, Mother in law!

Why are MILs portrayed so badly in pop culture? We have such good intentions.

She worries me so

Mother in law, Mother in law!

After two close encounters with my son's future MIL, I think he is blessed. Her Mom is smart, generous and fun. Best of all, she cares for him, and she seems excited about their future.

If she leaves us alone

We could have a happy home

Sent from down below

Mother in law, Mother in law!

I have a wonderful MIL. She was great during the marriage, but more significantly, after my divorce, my MIL was supportive in many ways, large and small. She never took sides or interfered.  Of course she loves her son and was a rock for him.  But she was always there for me, is still there for me. I am thinking fondly of her as I build a relationship with my future daughter.

Every time I open my mouth

Steps in trying to put me out

How could you be so low?

Mother in law, mother in law.

Let's face it Moms: it's hard to keep quiet when you think your kid is heading down a rabbit hole.  But most of the time, he is informing, not asking for permission. I think you have to say what you think (some of the time), agree to disagree, and move on. 

She thinks her advice is a contribution

If she would leave that would be a solution

Don’t come back no more

Mother in law, Mother in law!

My son is the only child of divorced parents. His love will have to navigate two sets of parents and their extended families. It will be complicated, but I think she will be fine because she has a big heart. It's what I love most about her.

I guess I'll use the lyrics of this song as "what not to do" as I build my relationship with them. And enjoy being part of the best times of their life.

Readers:  do you have any good MIL stories? What are the watch outs? What are the joys?   

In case you are too young to know the Ernie K-Doe song (written by Allen Toussaint), enjoy.

Memories Lost and Found

70 years of photos with some of the cameras that captured life.

Chris Brady

My mother gave me a shopping bag of old photos recently.  At age 89, her eyesight is so poor that the photos are just paper, faded memories of loved ones who have gone before her lost again to blindness.

It’s a big pile, probably a few hundred.  Many black and white of the small Kodak camera days  capture her childhood on through to married life. Fading color photos that document life from the 1960s to the 1980s are not holding up as well as the black and whites.  It’s fun to look through them, at her early life and mine, at aunts and uncles long gone from my life.  The responsibility to do something with this pile weighs on me.  But what?

My own photo archive awaits a similar fate.  I fancied myself a photojournalist in college, shooting, developing and printing 35 mm black and white in my home darkroom.  I moved to slides in the 70s and then color prints from the 80s until Y2K.  Being a storyteller, I organized most of my prints in albums, often adding captions and including memorabilia from places and events. There are more than 20 albums and I enjoy looking through them on occasion. Somehow, I can’t see my son being particularly thrilled if/when I pass the box on to him.

From Paper to Pixels

Easier to store but not as much fun to me.  

Digital images from the past decade sit on a dozen CDs, two laptops, two phones, Flickr and Facebook. Funny, as easy as it is, I don't look at those files very often, and when I do, it's just not as much fun.  The good news is that there is not as much guilt in disposing of digital images.  Send them to the cloud.  Might as well just hit "delete" for all the good that will do.

I’ve transferred Mom’s pile from the plastic bag to a metal box for safekeeping.  A good project for my retirement years, I think.  Sort them, scan them and save them to a DVD or maybe even create a new story book and print it.  

I like to imagine a great-granddaughter looking at the images someday -- paper or digital -- and seeing herself in the faces of the past.

Guess I have some work to do.

Dear readers:   What are you doing with your decades of print photos?  What are you doing with your digital archive? Share your ideas.  

Role Models

            Recently, I spent an afternoon making fecalizers.  If you are a dog or cat owner, you know them as those little plastic containers you get from the vet so you can bring in the requisite “sample.”  While I was assembling these handy kits - plastic container, rubber glove, plastic bag  - I started thinking.

            In my 40-year career since my first job at Jeanes Hospital at age 16, I have been a food service worker, a cashier, a waitress, a teaching assistant, a proofreader, an administrative assistant, a features writer,  and a real estate appraiser.  I have even sold potholders and oven mitts over the phone for some spurious nonprofit organization and have taken telephone surveys for a bona fide public opinion research company. I have given tours wearing a poodle skirt. I have worked for a national company, for a regional bank, and for myself.  After 20 years running my own business, I am embarking on a new career as a veterinary assistant.  That’s where the fecalizers come in.  That particular afternoon,  I was questioning  the wisdom of this choice – low pay, no prestige – and wondering if I should be expecting more of myself.

            Then I started thinking about the Kelly girls.

            My mother was the youngest of the four Kelly sisters.  After marriage, my mother did not work outside the home.  Except for a brief stint at Charming Shoppes when all her children were finally in school, my mother has remained a homemaker. Until she married my father (her boss), however, my mother did have a variety of secretarial jobs.   As well as moonlighting as a dance instructor for Arthur Murray.   

Aunt Renee, the next female rung up the Kelly ladder, also held a few  jobs after high school.  From her stories, and from family lore over the years, Aunt Renee’s forays into the world of work outside the home resemble episodes from “I Love Lucy.”  Not that she didn’t work: Aunt Renee was a “homemaker” in every sense of the word.  Reen could hang everything from curtains to wallpaper.  Her handiwork clothed her children, adorned her home, and graced her table.  Just don’t ask her to punch a time clock.

            Aunt Marge, next up, was a divorcee when it wasn’t so fashionable, and worked for Curtis Publishing Company. Aunt Marge kept my voracious appetite for reading somewhat sated with copies of “Jack and Jill” magazine.  All while supporting three daughters of her own.

Aunt Mary, the oldest girl and childless, worked most of her life at Sears Roebuck and Company, that big building that sprawled along Roosevelt Boulevard.  She often shared coffee and cake with my mother in our kitchen after her shift was done.

No fanfare, no controversy:  they just did what they had to do.

            Still, the Kelly girls were not known for keeping their opinions to themselves.  As I grew up under their careful scrutiny, my choices were sometimes questioned.  Still, where my mother might leave off in her support, another sister might take up the cause.  However, I never heard anyone seriously discourage me from any career path.  No matter which path they had chosen for their own.

Now, my mother is the last living girl in her family. Yet, as I stood there making fecalizers, I knew what all the Kelly girls would think of my latest choice: if I am happy doing whatever I am doing, that’s enough.  Though in the world at large, the Kelly girls were no movers and shakers, I always knew they were proud of me.

I hope they know I was always proud of them.

10 Sweetest Things

Periodically, in an effort to appreciate the gifts of the moment, I make a list of the 10 Sweetest Things my son is doing. If you want to find past entries, for extra sweetness, you can find them here.

I love 17 months. Okay, not everything about it. Carl and I are learning about saying no, setting limits, educating Daniel on what is and isn't appropriate. Example: yes, Daniel, it's appropriate to say "excuse me" and wait for someone to get out of your way. It's not so appropriate to shout "excuse me" after you've crashed into the old ladies who aren't leaving church quickly enough for you. But overall, this age is super sweet. Here are some of my favorites right now.

1. He toddles over to the couch, looks up with sad eyes and says, "Cudd-le?" As if anyone could turn down that offer.
2. He says, "I love you." But it sounds more like, "I loooooove ju."
3. He blows kisses to say goodbye, fingers outstretched, arm flinging forth with a flourish.
4. He adores my dad, so much that he has a special dance he does when he says Pop-pop. It looks like raising the roof: hands at shoulders, palms up, two quick upward pops.
5. He loves to sing Alleluia. Of course at church today, he only sang it, very loudly, at inappropriate times - like during the homily, but still. Pretty cute. Recently, he's taken to singing it softly as I rock him before putting him to bed.
6. He loves cats. All kinds. House cats, snow leopards, tigers. These seem to be his favorite animal. I showed him a picture of a leopard in a magazine and he spent ten minutes going "kittykittykittykittykitty" in a gutteral voice. He looked like he wanted to nuzzle the picture, but he didn't.
7. When we met Bitsy, my brother's new puppy, he approached her slowly, and was very gentle, even though he's used to burrowing into Nalu, our doggie, at will. He seemed to intuit that Bitsy couldn't handle any rough play.
8. He pretends to go to sleep, lying on the floor, saying "Night night" and then fake snoring.
9. As he walked out of church tonight, he turned around and said, "Bye, Jesus!"
10. See for yourself above. Him singing "Happy birthday to you" almost hurts me it's so sweet.

What's sweet in your life today?

Baby Steps

Overwhelmed with going back to work after vacation, with finding child care so I can write more, with the impending back to school transition, I felt paralyzed. But as I watched Daniel taking one teeny step at a time, I remembered the concept of baby steps. Every day I see him trying, learning, growing more confident. He’s not leaping tall buildings in a single bound, but with every step he gets closer to walking on his own.

This morning, I tried to apply that idea to my work. Step one - I blocked off some time for writing. Step two – I looked at the outline for my second novel. Step three – I met my small daily writing goal. Just taking those three steps helped me to breathe more easily.

I have to remind myself that my job is to do the footwork, to trust that it is enough, and to enjoy the journey. As long as I’m moving forward, no matter how slowly, I am doing my job.

What helps you when you feel overwhelmed?

Justice Served Too Quickly

I have always found that mercy bears richer fruits than swift justice.

                                                                            Abraham Lincoln 

I was a spectator at a jury trial this week. It was my first chance to watch my lawyer son trying a case.  He was prosecuting a 26-year old woman for a hit and run offense.

The accident happened last January on a busy road at about 7 p.m.  The woman was driving to a friend's house, not impaired in anyway, when her car struck something. She claimed that she didn’t know she had hit a person.  

The pedestrian had just left a bar intoxicated when he walked onto the dark road and was hit by her vehicle. Allegedly in shock, she drove almost two miles away, talked to three people who urged her to call 911, processed what had happened and waited for someone to accompany her back to the scene. Other drivers stopped to help the man. Rescuers arrived within minutes but they could not save him.

She was not charged with vehicular homicide, only with leaving the scene of an accident  Her lawyer contended that the young woman acted out of confusion and hysteria. (She has an anxiety condition.)  She explained that the 2-hour time lapse in returning to the scene was because her friend was an hour away.

In closing, my son the prosecutor showed the jury a photo of her damaged car.  It looked as if something had rolled over the passenger side of the hood and into the windshield. He described the 255-pound victim who was wearing a bright red Phillies cap. How could she not have known that it was a person?  Why couldn’t she stop and see what had happened? 

As I watched him argue the case, I was proud of his talent as a litigator; I was rooting for him to win.  But I found myself sympathetic to the plight of the accused too. Yes, she left the accident scene, most likely to save herself. I wish that the victim who walked onto the road had not suffered death, the ultimate penalty, but I struggled that she had become a victim of his bad judgment.

I was disappointed to learn that it only took the jury an hour to decide her fate.  I had hoped that people would take more time to send a young woman to jail for a bad decision made in a moment of fear.  She will serve 1-2 years in a state penitentiary; let's hope it will not turn out to be a life sentence of more bad choices.

Understand that I have greatly summarized this story. I agree that the jury had to find her guilty. But a lawyer friend told me that the state could have decided not to charge her in the first place.  Makes you wonder what it would take for the state to take a pass on a case like this?  If she had returned in 60 minutes would it have been a different story? 

In a few months, my son will leave his job as a prosecutor and will begin representing the accused as a defense attorney. I will remember this trial, his righteousness in defending the expectations of society.  I know he will bring the same passion to the other side of the courtroom.  I hope that he doesn’t represent really evil people.  I hope they will be more like this woman: flawed characters just like most of us, depending on understanding and compassion from the jury when we inevitably fail.

Cheerio, My Good Boy

Though I didn’t make any resolutions for 2012, I am trying harder to stay in the present. When I keep my mind and body in the same place, I have much more peace and gratitude in my life. I want more of both.

So, being in the moment right now means watching my son eat. Last week at his six month appointment, Dr. Devon said he could try all kinds of new food—yogurt, cottage cheese, fruits, veggies, and Cheerios. I strolled him from the pediatrician’s to the grocery store, eager to see Daniel’s reaction to these new things. Most new foods cause some skepticism from him. He’ll take a spoonful of whatever I offer, but he eyes me warily, while he decides if he likes it. After this initial tasting, everything so far had been greeted with a wide open mouth, and gobbled down.

But the first time I tried to feed him a Cheerio, his mouth clamped shut and he looked at me as if I was crazy. I ate a few myself, with enthusiasm, but he wasn’t buying what I was selling. The next day, after warming him up with some familiar oatmeal and applesauce, I offered the Cheerio again. He opened his mouth, ever so slightly, eyeing me the whole time. I placed the oat gently in his mouth, like giving someone communion. He moved his tongue around a little, then spat the offender out. Not interested.

By yesterday, he was loving them. Opening up his mouth eagerly, smacking his lips together as he chewed with his gums, kicking his legs, smiling. I decided I could watch him eat Cheerios all day, so sweet is his contentment. As a bonus, because they take him so long to eat, they buy me extra time to actually finish my meal, have some coffee, write in my journal. But the apex of the week was when he grasped a Cheerio in his little paw, and shoved it into his own mouth, pleased with himself as could be.

It might not sound like much, but watching my son go from unwilling to try something new, to mastering a new skill, well, it’s like watching a miracle. Though perhaps the real miracle is having the time, patience and attention to see it happening and appreciate it. These are the gifts of staying in the present. People keep telling me I’m going to blink and he’ll be thirty. Eek. I’m sure very soon he’ll be pushing his plate away, telling me he hates my cooking. But all I have is the present moment, when he kicks his feet and beams at me. I’ll take it.

Thoughts On Stuff: Trash or Treasure?

Do you have a lot of stuff?  When you get new stuff, do you add it to the same stuff you already had or do you get rid of some of the old stuff? 

I’m looking at my stuff right now, making plans to eliminate the excess that is hiding in my attic and basement and in the nether reaches of closets. I have bigger goals to downsize high visibility stuff that nags at my personal brand: my husband’s old player piano (and 80 piano rolls) that monopolizes a wall in my living room; the golf-themed artwork over my couch that has lost its luster since I fell out of love with the links. 

Tootsie in Alaska, 1960s.

My urge to purge has heightened because I am helping to clear out my recently deceased sister-in-law’s condo. (Read about Tootsie in this previous post.)  Tootsie acquired a lot of stuff in her 82 years. Figurines, china, silver, and memorabilia are cool, but tax records from the 70s?  It's been like an architectural dig. We’ve filled a dozen trash dumpsters and donated five carloads of books, clothes, and household items to the Medical Mission Sisters thrift shop. And we’re not done yet.

Tootsie worried about what would happen to her good stuff: Aunt Anna’s fine china, the grandmother clock, the red velvet Victorian chair and other things. This stuff is now with siblings, nieces and nephews, probably parked in their basements and attics. I wonder how long they will keep these treasures before they end up in a garage sale or on Craig’s List.  It’s Tootsie’s stuff, after all, not their stuff.  

I had a soft spot for the old gal, so I’ve adopted her plants; I saved a few photos of her, some old film cameras and a funny little candlestick holder from 1894 that came with the patent paperwork.  Other than the photo, the stuff doesn’t represent Tootsie to me.  A year from now, it will just be stuff.

MEATBALL WARS (and Other Holiday Traditions)

My family of origin is Italian-American so it may not surprise you that many of our holiday traditions center on food (oh, and also on guilt, but that’s a blog for a less jolly occasion.) Our most deeply rooted food tradition is a recipe passed down from my father’s side of the family. We call it Baked Macaroni, but its modest name hardly does justice to the layers of baked fettuccini noodles, tiny meatballs, hard-boiled eggs, pepperoni, locatelli and bubbly imported provolone cheese, smothered in “gravy” (aka tomato sauce for those without South Philly roots.)

We’re not sure how the recipe originated, but conventional family wisdom suggests it was our grandmother’s version of lasagna.  Since childhood, it is what we eat for Christmas dinner. If you’ve never stood at the kitchen counter for hours on end chopping eggs, pepperoni, and cheese, stirring gravy and rolling 7 or 8 HUNDRED cherry-sized meatballs, you may not appreciate what a tedious labor of love making Baked Macaroni can be. When it became too much for our mother, she passed the honors to my sister, Jeanne.

Well, sort of passed them. She relinquished the manual labor, but in the tradition of a good Italian mother, she retained general contractor rights. That meant starting in August, at every family get-together she might be heard asking questions like, “How many pounds of pasta will you use,” or “when will you start the gravy” or “how many meatballs will you roll?” Naturally there were no correct answers to these questions and they inevitably led to lively debates which my husband, Jim, affectionately dubbed, “THE MEATBALL WARS.”

Jim and I took over making the Baked Macaroni a few years ago and this year is our fourth Christmas since Mom died. It’s no surprise we miss her sitting at the holiday table. Who could have predicted how much we would also miss the Meatball Wars?