What was I thinking? That was the question I was left with after a conversation with some family members. What was I thinking when I didn’t assign my kids chores when they were growing up?
A small group of us were talking about how old we were when we learned to cook, if we learned to cook. Some of us, myself included, learned quite young. I remember being in third grade when I made my first roast chicken. Mom was bedridden, either because of ongoing menstrual problems or a flare of arthritis, and she gave me instructions how to prepare it. Others in our conversation came to it early, too, most learned as they helped their mom, and some didn’t recall being taught at all.
In the context of this discussion, my son asked, “Mom, you knew how to cook. Why didn’t you teach me?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t teach your sister either, so it wasn’t a sexist thing,” I responded.
The topic moved to the broader subject of all types of household chores. One person commented that their father viewed his children as worker bees, thus they had a myriad of responsibilities that were rotated among the siblings.
In the house I grew up in, we had chores, but they were unevenly divided. Things were assigned based on sex – I did the tasks that were thought of as women’s work, my brothers took out the trash, moved the garbage pails, and swept the driveway. I set the table and did the dishes after dinner daily. I was in junior high school when I staged my rebellion. It was clearly an unfair distribution of labor. At least my parents were persuaded by my argument and things changed. My brother Mark has still not forgiven me.
I admitted to the group that Gary and I had not required our children to do chores. Before they went to college, I showed them each how to do their laundry. We were fortunate in that for most of the years they were growing up, we had a person come to clean the house either weekly or every other week so the cleaning of bathrooms, washing or vacuuming floors, changing bedding was taken care of. I did the day-to-day straightening, laundry, dishes, etc. Gary did the gardening – the kids would sometimes help him with that. If I asked my son to help me bring in the groceries from the car he did so willingly.
As I sat there, I wondered: why didn’t we give them some responsibilities? I don’t think I did them any favors by not having them know how to cook, iron, clean, etc. Of course, I wasn’t particularly good at those tasks myself. I didn’t believe in ironing, unless absolutely necessary (still don’t). I don’t know how to sew. I can sew on a button in an emergency, but Gary takes care of that for himself. Cooking was probably the only area I really could have offered them something.
As I look back, I think I wanted to spare them the drudgery. I resented the chores I did as a child, though my father had explained to me that as a family, we each needed to contribute. I understood his point and accepted it, but I didn’t like it. I must have also carried some resentment for the years that things were so unbalanced with my brothers.
Another element was that starting when my kids were in first and third grade respectively, I stopped working. I took on some freelance jobs outside the home here and there, but I was essentially a homemaker for a dozen years. Gary worked long hours, and we were well provided for thanks to his efforts. I almost felt guilty, even as I intellectually knew that I was supporting Gary’s career by doing all the housework and managing our family. Emotionally, though, it felt ‘less than,’ or not particularly valuable or admirable. I figured children only get so many years to be carefree so I’d let them be and I would take care of the chores.
It occurs to me now that I may have also been avoiding the inevitable conflict that goes along with assigning chores. It wasn’t a conscious thing at the time, but I was probably unwilling to take on the fight. This thought doesn’t make me proud but there is likely some truth in it.
Interestingly, both kids are well functioning adults. They might not have come into adulthood having a lot of the skills or knowledge necessary to take care of a home, but they are doing it, they are quite competent. They would have to say whether they feel they were ill-prepared and if it created problems for them, though they haven’t complained to me. They make good use of Google and YouTube. Somehow, they are both figuring it out with their respective partners.
I come away, after thinking about this, believing that there isn’t one right way to handle this issue as a parent. Children becoming competent adults involves a lot of things falling into place beyond how this one thing is handled.
I understand the value of giving children responsibility and having them appreciate the importance of helping as members of a family. Perhaps, my children would be better off today if I had assigned them chores, but we will never know. Each of them got the message that a work ethic was important, and more than that, they don’t exhibit a sense of entitlement. Maybe the behavior they saw modeled was the most powerful factor in shaping them into adults – that and good luck (being lucky in health and not experiencing trauma are immeasurably important).
One last thought: Gary would remind me periodically that our respective parents raised us very differently, yet we function in the world pretty well. I found that thought comforting. There is room for a range of philosophies and a range of mistakes.
Carefree days
Please feel free to share your experiences as a child with chores and/or your parenting approach. I’d love to hear!
I am a grandmother, called Nana by my granddaughters, which makes me smile.
I ask myself, how much of my life do I want to shape around theirs?
I grew up with my Nana living upstairs in the apartment above mine in a two-family semi-attached house. She was a gift to me.
I am not in the same situation. I am 2 and ½ hours from one granddaughter, three hours from the other. My children did not grow up in the situation I had either. They saw their grandparents maybe monthly in the summer, once in the winter months when we would fly down to Florida during the February break from school. They still knew their grandparents, and knew they were treasured. Most summers my kids would spend a week at my folks’ house in the Catskills. I think that was an especially bonding experience.
Is that enough for me?
These days we have FaceTime. We can see each other more frequently – in between in-person visits. What will that mean to them?
Then there is my relationship with my children. There are rare occasions when I see each of them separate from their families. It is precious time when I get to see them one-on-one. Do I shape my life to maximize the opportunity to visit them?
Or do I lead my life?…commit to volunteer work, commit to writing, commit to political activism – instead of filling in with those activities.
I don’t know how to balance it.
And then there is the mundane business of life. It is common to hear people who retire say, “I don’t know where the time goes. I’m always so busy. How did I fit in a full-time job?”
I am finding that taking care of myself as I age has become a full-time job. More frequent doctor visits, more frequent medical tests, physical therapy, exercising multiple times a week, picking up prescriptions, and all the paperwork that supports that stuff. Then there is the expansion of household tasks, some of which I crammed in or let fall by the wayside when I worked so there is catching up to do. Between taking care of the house, the car and my body, there isn’t that much extra time. Plus, my capacity or energy for all of it isn’t what it used to be.
I admit I am disappointed in a way; retirement isn’t quite a free as I thought it would be. I know I am lucky – unbelievably so in that I am not facing serious illness, just the nagging things that happen as the bones, joints and systems wear. I am even more blessed that my children are independent, capable humans who have families of their own. They live very full lives without help from me.
Some of my peers appear to be happy to center their lives around their children and grandchildren; others appear to be happy centering their lives on their own activities and maybe some have found the secret of balance. If you have, please share! Or maybe I assume folks are happy because that is the face they put on, especially on social media.
Between my own desire to remain engaged in meaningful growth, contributing to the world, and to have fun (which for me means traveling, being active, walking among trees, smelling flowers, being social, and, most importantly, deeply connected to my family), I feel like I don’t know what I am doing.
But, maybe I am doing it. This is it. I answer a call from my son who has an extra ticket to a Met game on a Monday night and I figure out how to make that work (it was a great game and we had a blast!). I schedule my various medical appointments and follow their instructions as best I can. Babysit for grandchildren and grandnephews when asked. Fit in yoga and tennis where I can. Take a walk with a friend. I write when I can, post a blog when I can. I don’t worry about getting published (easier said than done!). Let tasks in the house sit a while longer. I have lunch with a friend here and there. Plan a trip or two each year. Celebrate my granddaughters’ birthdays. Sounds pretty awesome really. So why do I feel uncentered? Perhaps it is just a matter of accepting it – the fragmented nature of it, the unpredictability of my schedule (or the absence of one) and the idea that I write mostly for myself and whatever audience reads my work. And most importantly, to believe that in being there for friends and family, I will have done something worthwhile even in the face of this very troubled world.
Looking for perspective in the woods of Central Park or maybe just admiring the birds.
Editor’s note: I received the following email from my brother, Mark Brody. With his permission, I thought it merited sharing.
I just read a headline, I only read the headline as that is all I can tolerate, which indicated that federal funding is being cut to the programs which provide tutoring to children. After reading that, or you can substitute any other recent news, such as how research into the cures for Alzheimer’s or cancer, etc. are being eliminated, and I decided that my sensitive, far too brilliant for her own good, sister could enjoy the following essay which, if she chooses, she might wish to post on her blog.
The Hero of Our Own Lives
“Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by someone else, these pages must show.” (Opening sentence of David Copperfield by Charles Dickens).
Last night Pam, my wife, and I were babysitting our 5-year-old twin grandsons. After the boys had a bonus 8-minute episode of an animated, parentally approved TV show called Grizzy and the Lemmings, we all scurried up to their bedroom. I declared I would outrun them to their room and for the 156th consecutive time (we babysit frequently) both Connor and Lucas outran their ancient grandpa.
Our usual nighttime reading ritual is that Connor will select books for me to read and Lucas, exhausted from a long day, will lie in his bed and be satisfied with just hearing the story as Connor plops himself in my lap. Before the last book is concluded Lucas will be sound asleep.
Last night, however, Lucas hands me a particular book and asks me to read it.
The first problem with reading to Lucas at night is that he is usually so tired that he needs to lie in bed, and I need to place my old, creaky body on the floor next to his bed so he can see the pictures as I read the story.
The second, potentially equally vexing challenge, is that Connor whose bed is at the opposite end of the room “needs” to climb into Lucas’ bed so he can get an equally good view of the book, or perhaps more cynically, to make sure that Lucas does not get a better view of the book than he receives. This in and of itself is fine, but when reading comes to an end and Lucas is an inch away from being asleep, Connor will invariably decide he should stay in Lucas’ bed and endeavor to keep Lucas awake as there is still much playing and gabbing to be done. Extricating Connor from Lucas’ bed is often an ordeal.
Last night, however, I was delighted that Lucas decided to climb into my lap as I started to read to him. Connor then took his usual perch in my lap (the boys are still young and my lap, unfortunately or not, is quite ample). We read the story. The boys genuinely helped decipher some of the words as the lighting is dim and when the color of the word is red, and the background is black, I have difficulty making out the letters (I am color blind). The bedtime ritual was completed, and Lucas went right to sleep. I tucked in Connor and said, “Good night.”
As I left the room Connor commenced a debate with Pam. Was Grandpa’s “good night” sufficient? “Nana, when I wake up tomorrow Grandpa will not be here, don’t you think you should get Grandpa to come back and say ‘goodbye’?” Despite the debate I did not believe it wise to return to the bedroom.
First, debates with Connor (always Connor, as Lucas is not afflicted with the need/desire to question/analyze absolutely everything) can sometimes be lengthy (remember they already had an extra episode of Grizzy). I could envision much time elapsing before I would again leave the room.
Second, and much more importantly, I recall the infamous evening when I was babysitting sans Pam and her adult oversight. I recall the look of terror in Josh’s face when I showed up alone, and the parents got home to discover Grandpa in the twins’ room well after bedtime, reading/gabbing with Connor. The formerly always serene Mama demonstrated a countenance which can be generously described as something other than serene. As an aside, the Daddy of the twins, who has not yet to my knowledge been described as serene, voiced his considerable displeasure with my judgment that Connor did not need as much sleep as the parents thought necessary.
With that experience in mind and armed with the ability to learn from the past, I promptly made my exit and left Pam to handle the debate with Connor. For some reason, unbeknownst to me, Pam does not seem to test the Mama’s serenity.
Later that evening Pam explained that Connor’s thesis that Grandpa’s saying “good night” was insufficient was predicated on Connor’s observation that upon his saying “goodbye” to me, I should also say “goodbye” to him because when he wakes up in the morning I would not be there. Hence, just saying “good night” is not sufficient. Note taken.
Both grandparents, having safely bid the boys good night or goodbye as the case may be, await the parents return home which they do at a reasonable hour. Pam and I head to our own abode.
We discuss how I used to read to our boys when they were the twins’ age so many decades ago. Perhaps that is why I decided I should re-read David Copperfield. Having made a little headway in the tome, I went to bed at 6:00 a.m.
When I awoke the next afternoon, Pam and I discussed how 35 years ago I would read one chapter of the Dickens’ classic a night to Josh. If memory serves me correctly Sam – age 4 or 5- would be snuggling with Josh and me. She suggested that perhaps one chapter a night might still be a good idea for me. Another note taken, but likely ignored given my track record.
This made me think- about how long it would have taken me to complete the 64-chapter book (each chapter averaging 15-20 pages).
…..And then a memory arose which I had not thought of for many years. I now recall having been so enthralled by the elegant writing, humor and pathos of the novel, one summer afternoon, while we were on vacation in a time share in California, I simply had to read the book to myself. This decision did not end well because Joshua spotted me reading the book…without him! He was outraged and demanded that I not “go ahead of him in the book.”
Three plus decades later, I recall vividly Josh explaining how my betrayal stung him. He probably has no memory of this. My argument that I was going to read everything to him were to no avail. 7 (or 8?) year old Josh’s thesis was that this was a shared experience for the two of us (Sam’s presence was either tolerated or perhaps cynically he did not notice Sam on the other side of me as we read) and my proceeding without him was a grievous abdication of parental responsibility.
…And now a more recent memory- about 4-5 years ago, I am in Josh’s house and he is on the living room floor (he is not yet as antiquated as is his father and can sit comfortably on the floor) with one of the twins and he is reading to his son, not yet one, from one of Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings books.
…..And then another memory from two years ago- Sam reading to his then 5-year-old son (Ted) from the Hobbit.
…..And yet another memory rushes in from 60+ years ago of Mom reading to me. I struggle to recall whether it was Treasure Island or maybe The Three Musketeers– perhaps my older brother, Steven will know.
…So, to conclude my essay, my dear sister, as our great expectations (pun intended) of our government is under constant assault, perhaps there can still be a calming perspective about how rich it is when we have the opportunity to share literature (great or otherwise) with children. And perhaps by doing so we can be the heroes of our own lives.
Note from your sister: Thinking about reading stories to our children and grandchildren, or reading literature in general, is far better than absorbing the news. So thank you for sending this to me. I too have fond memories of reading to my children each night, but I was not so ambitious as you. Though I read them chapter books, I never took on Dickens.
I also think about the role books had in our shared childhood. Wherever we were, and, as you know, we spent summers in different college communities while Dad pursued his education, we took a weekly trip to the library. Mom and Dad set us up for an enriched life. As they say in one of our prayers, not that we are religious, l’dor v’dor, from generation to generation. I think we have done just that. Mark, thank you for sharing this.
I don’t have a sister; I have two brothers. But, I find the dynamic between sisters particularly interesting, maybe because I don’t have one. I could be romanticizing it based on Hallmark cards, but it seems that for some it can be a deep, lifelong friendship; a connection different than the relationship between a sister and a brother, at least from my observation. I did have a front row seat to my mother’s relationship with her sister, Simma, and a less intimate but still revealing view of my mother-in-law and her sister, and I saw common themes. Those relationships were quite layered and complicated. I was reminded of that recently because, as I am still in the endless process of going through my mother’s things, I came across a tribute Aunt Simma wrote for my mother that brought up questions. I am sharing portions of that essay because I think it offers insight into Mom and Simma and provides an opportunity to explore whether the relationship described is true of other sisters. This is Simma’s tribute:
Feige Brody: A Life
This is a wholly unauthorized, condensed, selective biography, one which, no doubt, will be considered by its subject to be semi-fictitious. Nevertheless, these are the author’s reminiscences and, therefore, are told from the author’s point of view.
Feige Marian Spilken was born in Brooklyn on November 16, 1933 to Ray Woltz Spilken and Charles Spilken. Her mother was 19, her father 29. She was named after her maternal grandmother who died too young in her early 40s. From the start she was a good girl, a mother’s girl, nurtured by her young mom whom she adored. Feige was everything adults could hope for in a baby. She was exceedingly pretty with dark curly hair, dimpled cheeks, and she was sufficiently chubby, a good thing in those days, to convince her paternal grandmother that Ray was not a bad mother….
The family moved to New London, Connecticut, where her sister Simma was born. Bubba Sarah Spilken was outraged that Ray should produce such a scrawny, straight haired baby who would not eat of her favorite dishes much preferring to eat bugs and dirt. Only Feige’s smiling, compliant presence and acceptance of those heavy, eastern European dishes kept Bubba from banishing Ray from the family. Feige was the good girl.
The great hurricane of 1938 forced the family to move to Jersey City, New Jersey. They lived above Charlie’s bakery and the girls loved bothering the bakers…
Across the street there was a saloon owned by the Landaus, the only other Jewish family in the neighborhood. Before it opened late in the afternoon, Mrs. Landau allowed the girls to play at the bar pretending to pull beer from the taps and serve customers. There were banquet rooms up a couple of flights of very narrow dark stairs. Everything was covered in sheets until the room had to be used. Feige loved telling Simma ghost stories as they climbed the stairs. She said the sheets were actually the ghosts’ clothing and would make appropriate noises to scare the daylights out of her impressionable sister.
Other favorite pastimes were staring out the back window at the not too distant Statue of Liberty and telling stories. Often, they would go to the front window in the late afternoon when the saloon opened. They liked to shout at one particular customer who looked worse for drink and had a fat, red nose. “Salami, Baloney, Pastrami,” they shouted since those were the most offensive words they knew. After the outcry they would duck, afraid the drunk would see them. That was exciting….
No matter where they lived, Feige was like a little mother to her sister. While Ray worked, Feige would entertain Simma and endure her fresh mouth and mischievous ways. One hot summer night all the windows were open when a terrible summer storm occurred… Simma wouldn’t listen when Feige told her to go to bed. Instead, she ran away making Feige chase after her. The rain slicked linoleum floors were so slippery Simma fell. Sliding into the metal radiator, her eye was bruised, turning black and blue, but it was Feige who suffered. She couldn’t stop blaming herself for the accident. She was a good girl.
Simma would refuse to go to sleep… Feige would induce her to come to their shared bed by telling her she would be allowed to squeeze and pull Feige’s copious ringlets. Simma can still feel their soft, springy, velvet luxuriousness. It was a fact that whether they were in Brooklyn, in the country with Bubba and Zada, or at a bungalow in Rockaway, Feige took care of her sister.
She was patient most times, but one lapse occurred in the late ‘40s. Simma was home in bed, too sick to go to school. Those were the days of Forever Amber, but there was no way the girls could obtain that “dirty” book. They got a poor imitation in Kitty. Feige allowed Simma to read the book but made her promise to read it under the covers, the way Feige read every night so their parents wouldn’t catch her.
When Feige came home from school, Simma asked her to define a word she could not find in the dictionary. “Feige,” she queried, “what is a whore?” She pronounced it “war.” “You know. It’s an armed conflict between nations,” Feige replied. Simma was frustrated and said, “I don’t mean a war, a ‘war.’” Feige responded, exasperatedly, “WHO-ER, stupid, WHO-ER.” What was this? Feige lost her cool and never did enlighten Simma as to the definition of the word…
Ray and Charlie always had people in the house. The two sides of the family gathered there as well as their many friends. Feige and Simma were allowed to stay up and mingle with them. One of Charlie’s friends, Jerry Cohen, would show them parlor tricks first fooling them and then teaching them. That was how they learned to read each other’s minds, an act they still perform for amazed spectators.
Days, though, were not always sunny. Feige finally caused her parents anxiety when she was 17. She decided she would like to move into an apartment with some friends. How could a well brought up girl live without her parents’ supervision? Ray and Charlie were distressed. But it was a great time for Simma. It was the only time Simma was told by family members that she was the good daughter, never causing her family any distress. Who were these people? Where had they been for the last 17 years?
When Feige started college her life changed, making it even better than it already was. She met Barry Brody. She was smitten and, indeed, got married to him as soon as they both were graduated from Brooklyn College. Feige is fond of quoting Charlie. Well, one of his precepts was that to have a happy marriage the couple should move away from their parents the first year of their marriage and get to know one another without interference. Feige, ever obedient, moved to Wichita Falls, Texas; Chicopee Falls, Massachusetts; and then back to Brooklyn with two boys in tow and a girl on the way.
Now, Feige was a devoted wife, mother, cook and baker. The girl who in her parents’ house had to be told that the outside of the pots and dishes had to be washed as well as the inside, was suddenly the happy homemaker. She, like Ray, loved to entertain family and friends. There was always lots of good food around which is still true whether the Brodys were home in Brooklyn or in Livingston Manor, or, now, in Boynton Beach. Their houses were and are gathering places for everyone they know, and their hospitality is boundless.
One more point of kindness, showing what a good girl and sister Feige is. A year after Simma’s husband died, Feige and Barry were afraid she would have nothing to do during the summer and suggested they all take a trip to Europe together. They planned to go to London, Paris and Amsterdam but the French changed all that. They would not allow American Air Force planes to use French airspace when they on their way to a bombing mission in Libya. The planes went the long way around. One ran out of gas and crashed killing the American crew. Feige was up in arms while putting her foot down. She would not go to France. She said there were two choices: cancel the trip or find something to replace the Paris portion. There was a replacement, a circle England tour. It was Simma’s first sight of England and Oxford, a romance that continues to this day. Thank you, Feige. By the way, Feige still has not gone nor will ever go to France. You are a good girl, Feige Marian Spilken Brody. Happy birthday with love from your sister, Simma Spilken Sulzer.
Mom (left) and Simma as teenagersMom (left) and Simma in England
Unfortunately, both Simma and Feige have passed away so I cannot ask questions that arise from the narrative. For example, Simma notes that after the great hurricane they moved to Jersey City and lived above Charlie’s bakery (Charlie was their father). I thought the bakery was owned by Charlie’s brother. A minor point in one sense, but not so inconsequential in understanding their economic circumstances.
It’s also interesting that Simma comments in a positive way about Mom’s chubbiness as a baby – at that time, and in their culture, having a plump baby was a sign of good mothering. I think we still believe it’s okay for a baby to have round cheeks, but only up to a point, then we start to worry. The never-ending judgment of mothers continues unabated to this day.
Another recurring theme is the importance of story-telling and reading. Mom was a devoted reader. In fact, as her daughter, I would get frustrated trying to get her attention when her nose was in a book. Often, I would just give up. On the positive side, my brothers and I grew up to be readers ourselves and continue to enjoy good stories.
Simma mentions the parlor trick of reading each other’s minds. Mom and Simma performed that gag many times to the amusement and bafflement of our family. I didn’t know where they learned how to do it, now I do – Jerry Cohen! Very late in life, Mom finally revealed how it was done, though I doubt I could remember the steps well enough to do it with one of my brothers.
Simma characterizes Mom as a happy homemaker after her marriage and arrival of children. I don’t think of Mom that way. She enjoyed cooking and baking for the purpose of entertaining guests (and to a much lesser extent feeding her family), but that was the end of her homemaking enthusiasm. Keeping a close eye on her young children (!), cleaning, sewing, and ironing were not high on her priority list. I don’t think she was a happy homemaker. I don’t hold that against her, but she probably should have been a bit less laissez faire when it came to overseeing her young children.
There are so many other interesting elements to this essay, starting with Simma’s disclaimer at the beginning. She acknowledges that her perspective may be quite different than Mom’s. I don’t think she is referring to the vagaries of memory. When Mom and Aunt Simma would tell a story from their shared past, which may have involved the same people and same incident, they understood it in totally different ways. Mom seemingly came into this world as a glass half full kind of gal; Aunt Simma not so much. Often, Mom saw people through rose-colored glasses and that certainly applied to how she viewed their parents.
I find it illuminating, too, that Aunt Simma describes Mom as a good girl. Mom, by her own description, was compliant and she wanted to please her parents. Aunt Simma was more rebellious, chafing at the restrictions put on them as children. Mom credited Simma with getting them a later bedtime, even though she was the younger one. Simma was the trailblazer, according to Mom. She also spoke of Simma’s insistence on picking out her own clothes. As a young person Simma was given a budget with which to buy her own outfits – she would rather buy one stylish item, instead of several cheaper things. Mom wore whatever her mother got for her.
That brings me to the first of several common themes between Mom and her sister and my mother-in-law and hers. That dynamic, the good one vs. the rebellious one, seemed to play out in both. Paula described herself as obedient – she did whatever her mother asked her to do as a child. Sophia was less cooperative. Unlike my mom, who was the eldest, Paula was the middle child with an older brother, Bernie, and Sophia about three years younger. Years later, when I met them, Sophia commented that their dad told bedtime stories to Paula, not to her (though they shared the same bed – just like Mom and Aunt Simma). Paula claimed that he was telling the stories to both of them, but that was not Sophia’s perception. Paula recalled feeling loved by both of her parents, despite the traumatic premature death of their father (he was murdered by the Nazis). Sophia did not carry the same warm memories of paternal affection. This mirrors the differences in my mother’s and aunt’s tendency to have disparate perceptions of people (though in Mom and Simma’s case not necessarily different views of their father).
Sophia (left), their mother, Lea, and PaulaSophia (left), David, my father-in-law, and Paula
Another similarity between Mom and Paula was their choice of a spouse when compared with their younger sisters. Mom and Paula were lucky in marriage, enjoying long, supportive, loving relationships. No doubt they had their ups and downs, as all marriages do, but they had husbands who were welcomed into the family and were much loved by their in-laws. Simma and Sophia were not so blessed. I imagine that difference in marital harmony impacted their relationship as sisters, as well.
The biography that Simma wrote for my mom is full of love and warmth. Their later years were more complicated. When I visited in Florida, years after Dad died, Mom told me that she believed Simma didn’t like her anymore. I didn’t know what to say. I tried to find fault with her perception but didn’t convince her. So many things might have gone into that – the loss of their respective husbands, deteriorating health, and perhaps long buried resentments/jealousies. At one point, after Simma died and Mom was feeling guilty that she hadn’t been able to offer her sister much comfort at the end of her life, I read her this essay and other cards from Simma that expressed love and appreciation. Sadly, it didn’t seem to ease Mom’s regret.
Paula and Sophia appeared to experience a similar distancing towards the end of their lives. Again, many things contributed to that, not the least of which was physical distance with Sophia living in Tucson, Arizona while Paula split time between New York and Florida. The progression of Paula’s Alzheimer’s disease created an additional challenge.
Sibling relationships are complicated. Though DNA is shared, personalities can be dramatically different and that was certainly the case with Simma and Mom and Paula and Sophia. Many people are estranged from their siblings, and it is understandable given how fraught family life can be. The potential for deep resentment is great – add mental or physical illness, or other serious problems and the bond can break. That was not the case with my mother or mother-in-law, but the end of life challenged the connection. There is no doubt, though, in both cases, the sisterly relationship was one of the most important in their lives. Whatever their differences, they remained deeply tied to one another.
What is your experience or observation about relationships between sisters?
This photo came up as a memory on Facebook a couple of days ago. It was bittersweet to see it. I remember that day clearly. It was only a year ago. Gary and I were in Florida for our annual pilgrimage to see the Mets during spring training. We took a short drive from our hotel to take a walk by the beach. Gary did his thing – he likes to show he can still climb a tree – and I snapped the photo to document it and sent it to our children, who, in turn, would hopefully show our granddaughters.
At the same time that we were enjoying this ordinary moment of levity, I was struggling with a difficult and painful decision. My mother, whose health had been failing, took a dramatic turn for the worse the night before. We had only just arrived in Florida. Though Mom had not been doing well, I had spoken with my brothers, the hospice nurse and her aide before leaving and we thought she was stable. We were wrong. Thus the question: Should I return and go to New Jersey, or should I stay?
Gary and I contemplated that as we walked along the beach. I had several conversations with my brothers before our walk. Both of them encouraged me to stay in Florida. Mark was heading down to Jersey from Albany with his wife, Pam, so he would be there. Steven and his wife, Cindy, lived 15 minutes away from Mom so he visited regularly. Steven was quite insistent that I stay in Florida; they would handle things. I had been very involved with Mom’s care up to that point, they didn’t want me to cut short our brief vacation. We were scheduled to be away for a total of five days, and we were on our second day when things went south.
After much contemplation, we decided to stay, believing that there wasn’t much I could add. My brothers are capable people. Mom was sleeping most of the time. Despite that, I was still torn. Did I need to see her? I decided I didn’t. I remembered how painful it was to see my father during his last days. Those images stayed with me for years, crowding out memories of him as a healthy person. It was also possible that I would get back in time to see her since our trip was so brief. Though I was deeply conflicted, I didn’t have a strong gut feeling, so we decided to stay in Florida.
I was able to enjoy the sunshine and warm air. I had the welcome distraction of the baseball games and dinners with friends. We visited Gary’s mother. In between, I talked to my brothers and thought about Mom and continued wondering whether I was doing the right thing. My brothers and sisters-in-law were handling some rough stuff – administering morphine, watching Mom to see if she was uncomfortable while she mostly slept. I felt guilty leaving this final stage to them, but I was also relieved.
Gary and I flew back north on Monday. Mom was still hanging in there. Before we left for the airport, I called my sister-in-law Pam’s cell phone, knowing she was sitting with Mom. Pam told me Mom’s eyes were closed, and she seemed comfortable. I asked her to hold the phone next to Mom’s ear. I told Mom I was coming to see her the next day but if she was ready to go, it was okay. I told her I loved her, that she was a great mother and that she earned her rest.
We arrived back in Albany late on Monday. Mom was still breathing. I got up early Tuesday morning and was packing my things to drive down to New Jersey when my phone rang. Mom’s aide, Ama, said she believed Mom had passed. She was waiting for the nurse to come to confirm it. I was surprised and I wasn’t. I thanked Ama for all she had done for Mom. I felt lost – now what should I do? After calling Gary, who was at work already, I wandered around my bedroom deciding if I still wanted to go down to New Jersey. For reasons that aren’t entirely clear to me, even now, I wanted to go. Maybe to see visual proof that Mom was gone, maybe to help Steve and Cindy with the details….
Ama was indeed correct. The next few days are a blur, planning the funeral, sorting through her things.
It was Mom’s time – I knew that. I wondered whether what I said to her on the phone made a difference. I didn’t exactly feel guilty about not being there, though I wondered if I would have offered her some additional comfort. I had been with Mom through most of her medical issues over the last years. I think I offered her comfort then. A year later I am still not sure how I feel. I am not riddled with regret, and I have been spared thinking of Mom as the sick version of herself. When I remember her, I think of her vibrant self. I am grateful for that. I still think of calling her to share good news.
I am also grateful to my brothers for protecting me – I think that is what they were doing by encouraging me to stay in Florida. I believe that they thought I had pulled my weight in caring for Mom, and they stepped up to see her through to the end, painful as it must have been.
Aside from knowing that it was Mom’s time, I know one other thing: there is no “right” answer as to how to handle the end of life. There is only doing the best you can and making decisions with love and compassion. After that, if you are a believer, you give it up to God. If you aren’t, and I am not, you give it up to the great unknown.
Note: Mom passed one year ago today – February 27, 2024. We miss her but take comfort in the long, happy life she had.
Aunt Clair’s ashes were sitting in a cardboard canister in the closet of our Manhattan apartment. The third anniversary of her passing was coming up soon. Her final wishes were to have those ashes spread over her parents’ graves. For many reasons, it had not been possible to make that happen, and as her yahrzeit (Yiddish for anniversary) approached, I was distressed.
When Aunt Clair died, I made the arrangements with the funeral home. She had no spouse or children, only nieces and nephews. I was her health care proxy. I had to identify the body before cremation. It was jarring to see my aunt without her spirit, it almost didn’t look like her, but sadly it was. The representative of the funeral home was kind and explained how things worked. I wrote about her funeral and shared the eulogy on this blog previously (https://stories-i-tell-myself.com/2021/11/08/a-eulogy-for-aunt-clair/.)
The first problem with fulfilling her wishes was that when I inquired at the cemetery, I was told it wasn’t permissible to spread ashes there. We could buy a plot and bury the remains, but there wasn’t a spot near her parents, and it was expensive. After consulting with family members and my own conscience, I decided that we would at least spread some of her ashes there discreetly. I imagine that the cemetery had its reasons, but I doubt it was because it would harm anything. I also didn’t want to take the chance of calling attention to ourselves, so I didn’t want to plan to spread all of the ashes there.
One of the things I learned through this process is that the amount of ash was more than I had imagined, though I had nothing to base my idea on. The canister was heavy, and it was tall.
I thought, given her love of biking and the frequency with which she would cycle from her apartment in Greenwich Village to her sister on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, that spreading the rest of her ashes through Riverside Park would be appropriate. I looked on the city’s website and believe it or not, it is legal to spread ashes in city parks*. It is not permissible to spread them in bodies of water within a park.
So, why were her cremains still sitting in my closet three years later? Life and death happened.
I recall when I picked up the ashes from the funeral home, the representative said, “You know how common it is for people to move into an apartment in New York City and find an urn with remains buried in a closet?”
I looked at him incredulously, “No.”
“You’d be surprised. People don’t know what to do, they put them away out of sight, forget, and they sit there for someone, years later, to discover. I’m just letting you know.”
“That won’t be the case here” I reassured him, and as I walked away, I thought, “That’s crazy. Who would let that happen?”
I have a better understanding now.
I had no prior experience with cremation; it isn’t a common choice among Jews, though apparently more are opting for it according to the guy at the funeral home. Aunt Clair wanted to be cremated, but she also requested that a memorial stone be laid at the foot of her mother’s grave. She had arranged for a footstone at her father’s grave in memory of the family he lost in the Holocaust in Poland, so she thought this was possible.
After the funeral, I brought her remains back to my apartment. After a few months passed and thinking that we would have an unveiling for the footstone on the one-year anniversary (and we would spread her ashes at that time), I began the process of ordering the memorial stone. This proved to be complicated to arrange. It was not a typical request. The cemetery didn’t want it to be confusing as to who rested in the plot. After a lot of back and forth that isn’t worth detailing, we came to an agreement about what the stone could say. It wasn’t exactly what Clair wanted, but it was the best we could do. It took more than two years for the stone to come to fruition.
When the stone was finally available, other things were going on in the family. We were not able to arrange a time for the ‘unveiling’ of the memorial and we didn’t spread the ashes. In the interim Clair’s sister, Aunt Diane, passed away, as did my mother. A whole generation was disappearing. Another year passed.
As Aunt Clair’s third yahrzeit loomed, I decided I didn’t want to wait any longer to fulfill her wishes. I wrote an email to my brothers and cousin and said I would like to visit the cemetery and spread her ashes on Friday, November 15th. Jewish cemeteries are closed on Saturdays (the Sabbath) and my Mom’s unveiling was planned for Sunday, November 17th. It would be a good time to make this happen. My cousin, who lives in Massachusetts, responded that her daughter’s due date was November 20th so she would not be comfortable traveling to NYC so close to that time. Aunt Clair would certainly understand that, as did I. It turned out the timing didn’t work for anyone but me and thankfully Gary. Despite that, I decided to go ahead with the plan
November 15th was a cool, sunny day as we drove the Jackie Robinson Parkway, a narrow, curvy roadway that connects Brooklyn and Queens and passes through a series of huge cemeteries. The trees were not yet entirely bare, the yellow and gold leaves shone in the sun. I had the location of my grandparents’ graves written down and we drove to the appropriate section of the cemetery. I thought I remembered my way to their graves. Gary and I combed the rows and couldn’t find them. I checked and rechecked my notes. Finally, I remembered I had taken a picture the last time I was there and maybe that would help. I searched my phone, those smartphones can be quite helpful and in the photograph I found a couple of landmarks that helped – a majestic tree and two large grave markers in front of my grandparents’ more modest ones with the name Feingold on them. We found the spot and now understood why we hadn’t seen them before – they were entirely blanketed in ivy.
Gary and I peeled away the ivy and exposed all the markers. Aunt Clair’s stone was there, as expected. I looked around and seeing nobody around, I took the baggie with a portion of Aunt Clair’s ashes out of my pocket and spread them over the graves. “May you rest in peace, Auntie.” I said. Gary and I paused and stood quietly for a bit. Then we got back in the car and headed back to Manhattan. Part one of my mission had been accomplished.
Gary clearing ivyAunt Clair’s memorial stone
The sun was still shining brilliantly as we made our way to Riverside Park. It was also quite breezy. I wasn’t sure how I was going to do this. I carried the canister in a canvas bag. As we walked, a plan revealed itself to me. We passed a garden, now gone to seed until the spring, and I thought this was a perfect spot to provide what perhaps could be fertilizer. I looked around and nobody was paying attention – I knew I wasn’t doing anything wrong, but I also worried it might be disturbing to onlookers. I spread a good deal of the ashes throughout the garden, and nobody seemed to notice. There was still a lot of ash left.
We continued walking through the park and came upon a memorial to the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising. The shrubs surrounding it presented itself as another opportune spot. Though Aunt Clair was not a religious Jew by any means, she was fiercely proud of being Jewish. This would be a meaningful location, as well. Gary reminded me to stand upwind as I poured the ashes over the bushes. I had not been as mindful of that the first time.
The canister was still not empty, and I knew of one more spot that I wanted to visit. Aunt Clair was an admirer of Eleanor Roosevelt and there is a statue of her at 72nd Street just inside the park. We continued our walk south to find it. I was pleased to see that there were plantings around the memorial. I spread the remaining ashes there.
Walking south in Riverside ParkStatue of Eleanor Roosevelt
Throughout our walk, aside from talking about mundane things, Gary and I shared memories of Aunt Clair. I felt good about what we were doing. I was grateful to have Gary to share it with. He knew her well and shared his own unique relationship with her. We had come darn close to fulfilling her wishes and I think we honored her spirit. Part two of our mission was now accomplished. I was glad she was no longer sitting in my closet.
We took a different route through the park back to our apartment, walking along the Hudson River. I felt peaceful. The sun lowered and its rays glistened on the water. The day was fading, and I was satisfied.
I don’t know why but I think of Mom’s silverware as I stare out the window over my sink. My stomach clenches. I feel an ache; a sense of loss.
A week or so ago Mark and I brought some things, jewelry and said silverware (which upon closer inspection was silver-plated) to a place where they bought and sold gold and silver. No one in the family wanted these items – we had offered it far and wide with no takers. So, we decided we would see what we could get for them. All told the silverware came to $6.51. The woman who took it explained that they would melt it down and extract what was valuable, which wasn’t much, or we could take it back and try to sell it ourselves.
We could have cleaned it up, it was badly tarnished, and sold it on eBay or in a garage sale and perhaps gotten more, but that was more effort and time than either of us were willing to give. We decided to take the money. I think it was the right decision.
I realize I am not actually sad about the silverware; I understand why we did what we did and that if I kept it, I would not be happier. It is the loss of my mother, who valued that set, who took it as she moved from place to place, that I grieve. My mother liked pretty things. She set a lovely table. She used her ‘fine’ china – I’m not sure how fine it was – and silver when she entertained. When she served tea, she chose from one of many beautiful pots and cups she collected over the years. It gave her pleasure. I don’t tend to do that. I try to present food nicely when we have guests, but I don’t put the same effort into it, and I don’t enjoy it the way Mom did.
The silverware represents something else aside from Mom’s aesthetic sense. It was a reminder of family gatherings from long ago. Mom would have me set the Thanksgiving table – the table for the adults, we always had a kids table, too – with that silverware. I also helped when she and Dad hosted dinner parties, which they did often. They had a book club with friends that usually included Mom making dinner. I was her sous chef and assistant, vacuuming and raking our red shag living room carpet, straightening up and setting the table. My bedroom was just off the dining room. I would fall asleep still hearing their voices and laughter.
Despite the warm memories, I would not want to return to childhood. I was lonely and terribly sensitive. The societal upheaval of the late ‘60s and ‘70s weighed on me. I would not want to relive growing up with all of the insecurity it entailed, but I can get sentimental about certain things from that place and time. I thought my family was perfect. Though I didn’t appreciate that my brother Mark teased me mercilessly and my brother Steven had a scary temper, as did my dad, but it all felt comfortable and right. I knew they loved me and would protect me. I thought our extended family, my aunts and uncles and my mother’s aunts, uncles and cousins, were the best. They were part of my everyday life – coming in and out of my grandmother’s upstairs apartment regularly. I didn’t know there were tensions and complications in those relationships – not then, that awareness didn’t come until I was fully an adult. As a child my family life felt like a cocoon that shielded me from the pain of the outside world.
It has been many years since I emerged from that cocoon. The first peeling back of my comfortable nest was when Nana died, and I was 11. In some ways Mom carried on Nana’s traditions, but things changed. I left home at 16 to go to college and though I came back for some summers and a year of graduate school, I never lived with my parents again.
Mom died one month ago. Her death is perhaps the final goodbye to that world. Mom and my relationship evolved and in her final years. I was more her caretaker than she was mine, but she was still present. She was still Mom. I still wanted her blessing.
I am now part the oldest generation of the family. I am one of the elders. How strange! It’s also unnerving. I know I have matured, but I am still the same person inside. My spirit doesn’t feel old. Sometimes my body argues otherwise, but mostly it functions as it did, and I am grateful for that. But I can’t deny reality. I have one remaining uncle who I am so thankful to have, but that is all that is left of the older generation.
I suppose it is inevitable that seeing certain things, a favorite mug of Mom’s, a lovely piece of pottery that now resides in my cabinet, will remind me of her. Or a memory might be jogged when I set my table with my silverware for the seder, and I will grieve the loss again. Not just of my mother, but Dad, Nana and my aunts and uncles. Though the pang I feel in my heart is painful, it is a good thing, too. It tells me I have had rich relationships and there has been a lot of love given and received.
“There was a lot of warmth in that room,” Gary said to me as we left a celebration in honor of his uncle Sol’s 100th birthday. I readily agreed.
It was an interesting gathering. If one reaches that auspicious age, it is almost certain that you have outlived your spouse (possibly spouses), siblings and most, if not all, friends. This is true of Sol. So it can be bittersweet to plan a party. Who do you invite? Sol’s son, Ben, faced this question.
Sol is a Holocaust survivor, like Gary’s parents. I have written a great deal about Gary’s parents, David and Paula and their remarkable story. I don’t know the details of Sol’s experience. Sol married David’s sister, Batya, in America. The two couples were part of a tight knit survivor community. There were about five or six families that socialized regularly, centered in Rosedale, Queens. Their children grew up together.
Gary told me stories about those years – how the mixture of family and friends would gather at his house most weekends – the kids playing various games while the adults chatted (and maybe argued, especially about politics). How they went to the Pennsylvania Dutch country with the Majewskis, who lived down the block, and how the Majewskis had all the coolest toys – they often hung out at their house. As often happens with college and adulthood, the kids went their separate ways, maintaining only occasional contact.
I didn’t know what to expect when we arrived at the party. I wondered who would be there. Ben and Rochelle, Sol’s step-daughter, set up displays of photographs of Sol that captured his life over the many years. We studied the pictures, looking at the young faces. When we sat down at a large rectangular table that sat the 25 guests, Ben welcomed everyone and explained that when he thought about who his father would want to share this momentous milestone with, he thought of that core group of survivors. Since the original members have passed on, Ben reached out to the second generation to gather to celebrate Sol, the one who remains. They all represented the heart of Sol’s life.
Sol lives in Florida. When we go to visit Gary’s Mom, we see Sol as well. Until about a year ago, he was in remarkable shape. It is only these last months that there are signs of his age, his short-term memory is starting to fail, and his strength is waning. When Ben extended the invitation to us, after briefly discussing it, we realized it was a milestone that should be recognized so we would both attend. After all, as several observed at the party, it was an opportunity to gather for a happy occasion, not a funeral which is more often the impetus for second and third generation survivors to gather.
I do not know the details of Sol’s journey, I don’t believe he participated in Steven Spielberg’s Shoah project, so there is no testimony to watch, as I have watched my in-laws’ videos. Based on the research our niece Laura did as part of writing her book, The Shoemaker’s Son, I do know that Sol suffered horribly. One of the factors that made his situation even more challenging is that his family was poor to begin with. The Nazis did not differentiate between rich Jews and poor Jews, but having some resources to bribe or trade could buy time when one was on the run, hiding in the woods. Sol bears the scars of his painful experiences. I believe he and his brother were the sole survivors from his family. Once he got to America, he had a successful business as a glazier, but the memories of deprivation were never far from his thoughts. His tightness with money is legendary in the family.
Several of the attendees made remarks, sharing memories of Sol, honoring his tenacity, and his love of family and friends. Jokes were told. Some of the speakers managed a great imitation of Sol’s accent – an echo of their own parents’ accents of blessed memory.
Sol sat at the head of the table. He enjoyed himself. He made his own remarks: he thanked everyone for coming and expressed his love for all. He told us that this was likely his last birthday. Everyone pooh-poohed that and Ben pointed out that he has been saying that for the last 40 years, so he took that as a good sign. Of course, no one knows what tomorrow will bring for any of us.
Gary was moved to be in the presence of that group – the familiar sounds of the voices of the past, the warmth of the connections, the strength of the bond that links them – even if they haven’t kept in close touch. Not only were they honoring Sol, but they were acknowledging the legacy of the survivors who were no longer physically present – though they are kept alive in their collective memory. Despite the fact that I don’t share their history, I was happy to be part of the poignant celebration.
Sol Feder, with his remarkable head of white hair, surrounded by family and friends
Alcohol was not part of my consciousness for most of my growing up years. My Dad did not crack open a beer when he watched the Giants play football on Sunday afternoon. Wine was not part of dinner, unless it was a very unusual occasion, like the Passover Seder. I don’t recall a time when either of my parents said, in the midst of a stressful time, “I need a drink!” I didn’t see alcohol in either of my grandparents’ homes. If I did, it was a dusty bottle in a cabinet. It had almost no role in our culture. Our celebrations involved food – that was the reward, that was the comfort. Ice cream or cookies were much more of a celebratory thing than making a toast – even for the adults.
It changed after Mom and Dad took a trip to California with their friends to celebrate their 20th wedding anniversary. When they came back, I distinctly recall that wine or a cocktail might be enjoyed as part of a meal, or as part of socializing with friends. That trip was in the summer of 1974, and I was almost 15. The combination of the influence of their friends, who knew a bit more about wine and liquor, being on vacation and not having their children around, made them open to enjoying the fruits of the vine.
Given how things had been, I noticed this change. In fact, by the time I went to college, two years later, I was a bit concerned that my mother was enjoying wine a little too much. I saw that she had taken to having a glass of wine more regularly – not even on a special occasion, it could just be an ordinary dinner! Or as part of a late afternoon snack with cheese and crackers! I was still not ‘of age’ so I had not partaken, and I wasn’t particularly interested in this new ritual. I wondered whether Mom was headed for trouble.
Then I went to college. My attitude changed somewhat. I appreciated the fact that alcohol could be a good social lubricant, though in my experience, the more I drank the more withdrawn I became. Getting buzzed was good, going further than that didn’t make me feel better and could get me sick. I seemed to have a natural defense to over doing it. I also never developed a taste for beer, which was the cheapest option and the beverage most often offered at college parties. I could enjoy wines, particularly Liebfraumilch (a semi-sweet white wine – Zellerschwarzkatz was especially popular in my day) or sangria; or a cocktail (I loved white Russians – still do). Fortunately for me, though, I did not have that predisposition that some are cursed with to not be able to stop drinking once they start. A couple of glasses and I was done.
When I returned home, I wavered in my judgment of my mother. It made me a little uncomfortable that she seemed to enjoy a glass of red wine so much, or a scotch on the rocks. But, in retrospect, it was also clear that she was capable of limiting her intake on each occasion – I can’t say I ever saw her drunk. My Dad would frequently have something along with her, but he never seemed to be as taken with it. And, I never saw him drunk, or even tipsy, either.
While I was growing up, I thought this attitude toward alcohol was the norm. I had an inkling, through my friendship with Susan, that some families were more liberal in their usage. Her dad offered her a sip of his beer when I was visiting (we were probably ten years old at the time). They had wine with dinner on the weekend. They were Italian. I thought that explained it. Maybe it did, but as I have gotten older, and as my family has evolved, I realize that my experience is not the norm. I think for American Jews of a certain age (I am 63), alcohol was not routinely consumed in their childhood home (perhaps it was part of ritual or part of Shabbat dinner, but not much beyond that). As with anything, I am sure there are exceptions. But, I do believe the incidence of alcoholism was lower among American Jews. I’m not sure that is still the case.
I have had occasion to think about this any number of times over the years. I just finished reading Matthew Perry’s memoir, Friends, Lovers, and the Big Terrible Thing, which details his harrowing struggle with alcoholism and drug addiction. I feel quite fortunate to not be afflicted with the disease. I struggle with my relationship with food, but I still wouldn’t characterize it as an addiction for me.
The question, though, that I still ponder is: what is a healthy approach to alcohol, and since marijuana is now legal, weed? There is a gray area, no? There is recreational use, plain and simple; using it occasionally or even regularly but not where it interferes with anything. Then, there might be a place where one uses too much, but it still isn’t abuse. Or, by definition, is over-use abuse? I imagine there is space between drinking too much and being an alcoholic. Is it a question of reliance, or craving? Is it a matter of how much it changes your behavior? I know people who become belligerent; I also know people who love everyone once they have had more than a few. What does ‘healthy’ use look like? According to dietary guidelines put out by the U.S. government: “adults of legal drinking age can choose not to drink or to drink in moderation by limiting intake to 2 drinks or less in a day for men and 1 drink or less in a day for women, when alcohol is consumed. Drinking less is better for health than drinking more.” One drink is defined by the Mayo Clinic as 12 ounces of beer or five ounces of wine. I’m not sure what that means if you don’t drink daily. Can you drink a week’s worth on a Saturday night?
I don’t know what the answer is. I know for me, I don’t like the idea of ceding control of my behavior to any substance. I like being in command of my faculties – like I said before, a little tipsy, or buzzed is enjoyable – more than that is uncomfortable. I have come to peace with not being the life of the party (that is a joke: I have never been the life of the party, nor wanted to be), though sometimes I wonder if I am just no fun at all! On balance, I’ll take it – it is better this way.
With my one libation at a family celebrationthat is way more beer than Gary usually consumes!
I don’t normally post on Friday, but my schedule has gotten all out of whack! I’ve been working on my book and a first draft is complete, but it has taken energy and time away from the blog. We’ve also been traveling – more on that soon. Thank you for bearing with me.
Does everyone who is lucky enough to have a grandchild see rays of sunshine when they look at them? Do they see sparks of light in the child’s eyes? An aura of yellow joy surrounding their head?
Grandchildren don’t always behave perfectly, I will acknowledge that, but they are sources of delight. Even when they are crying, they are adorable (it is much easier for a grandmother to say that!).
I see and feel my granddaughters’ radiance when I look at them. They are full of energy and curiosity. They emanate light and are full of life.
It is interesting because it seems to be a cycle – there is a feedback loop at play. A newborn baby arrives, you look at him or her with wonder. They in turn do the same. As a Mom or Dad it may take some time to fall in love with the little being – though for some the feeling is instantaneous; an almost chemical reaction upon first seeing the baby. For me it took time. I felt protective immediately, responsible for this vulnerable life, but I can’t say I felt the bond of love as soon as they emerged. That happened over time and grew in intensity. As your love grows, and you shine it on the baby, it seems to be reflected back in full measure. Unfortunately, this may not happen for everyone – if it did in every instance, the world would be a better place. It was my experience, though, and it seems to be happening for my children.
As a grandparent, in some ways, it is simpler. We don’t bear the awesome responsibility. We can simply bask in the wonder and love. Our grandchildren may prefer to be held by their mom or dad, but we get to build a bond, too. The feedback loop of love develops. I think babies know when someone is looking at them with deep love, enjoying, valuing their very existence.
I can appreciate the charm and adorableness of other babies and toddlers. I love my great-nephews tremendously. And I am delighted by my friends’ grands. I have to be honest, though, the phenomenon of light beaming from their eyes and smiles is reserved for my granddaughters. I imagine that is true for other grandparents – they see it in their own but not so intensely when they look at others.
I was thinking about this the other day after one of my granddaughters left after a weekend visit. She spent the weekend charming everyone who came in her orbit – especially me and Gary. One of my daughter’s friends stopped by with her perfectly adorable little one, but I was struck by how I was only seeing that halo of light around my granddaughter. I was thinking about this phenomenon when I had an ‘aha’ moment.
When I was growing up my maternal grandparents lived upstairs from us. I’ve written about my relationship with Nana in many blog posts. I recounted how each day I came home from school, put my stuff in my room, and went up to visit. I was greeted, on a daily basis, by “Hello, Sunshine.” Nana called me Sunshine with such regularity that I thought it was my middle name. My parents named me Linda S. Brody, they didn’t give me a middle name, just the initial (apparently they couldn’t agree on a suitable ‘S’ name; I was named after my father’s grandmother, Lifsha Surah – in Yiddish). For the longest time I thought the ‘S’ was for Sunshine.
I didn’t think of myself as a source of light growing up – I felt I was kind of a sad kid. I think I was dismissive of Nana’s term of endearment. I liked that she called me that, but I didn’t internalize it. It occurs to me now that perhaps my view was distorted. Nana saw something. Now I think I understand it. It gratifies me to reflect on that; to believe that she felt what I feel. I wish I understood this sooner, there is something validating in the realization. But, I guess you know when you know and certainly better late than never.
My granddaughters are my sunshine.
Nana and me – on our front porch in Canarsie – sometime between 1969-71
Stories I Tell Myself 