What To Do Next?

     Alex had just given birth to Flynn four hours earlier when she looked up from her hospital bed and, in all seriousness, asked me, "What are we going to do here for the next 48 hours?"
     I broke out laughing.  It was so like her.
     Go into labor.  Check.
     Get to the hospital.  Check.
     Give birth.  Check.
     Okay, that's done.  What's next?
     Admittedly, she was probably still under the influence of her epidural and almost certainly still had an adrenalin rush.  And, as a first time mother, she likely didn't fully understand how much she was going to need both sleep and pain medication over the next 48 hours.  Still, for someone who had worked right up until the day of her due date, I would have thought that the idea of 48 unplanned hours would be something to look forward to rather than something to fill.  Especially since free hours were going to be in short supply all too soon.
     It reminded me of a coworker I once had who insisted that when he had kids, they'd have to fit into his life rather than he into theirs.  I laughed then too.  I knew that kids tend to take the front seat in your life whether you want them to or not.  There are pacifiers to find, cheerios to pick up,  mini-vans to shop for, tantrums to tone down, and t-ball games to coach.
     And it doesn't even stop with the busy stuff.  They also dominate your thoughts.  I certainly hadn't intended to write a second blog post about Flynn or grandmotherhood--at least not so soon.  Yet here I am.
     It's like the poster I bought for Ellen years ago when she had four small kids running around, all wanting to ride shotgun. It shows a picture of a woman with kids growing out of her head like frazzled hair, and the caption, "My head is full of children."  It hung in Ellen's kitchen for over twenty years and was taken down just recently when she remodeled.  With her own grandmotherhood looming, I think I can safely tell her to hunt it down.  It's going to be true again soon.
     As for Alex, she's proving to be a natural mother, perfecting swaddling, feeding, and diaper changing like a pro.  All the while cuddling and marveling at her new son.  Her days and her head are filled, and it's unlikely that she'll be asking "What to do?" any time soon.
     More likely, her next question will be the same one I had as I watched my first-born hold her own first-born.  "Where did the time go?"

Jeanne's a Grandmother!

As the older sister, I’ve spent my entire life doing things before my sister. I was the first to ride a bike, to go to school, to swim the length of the pool, to dance in red boots, to lead cheers at ballgames, to learn my way around the University of Illinois campus, to get married, to have a baby, to buy a house, to be eligible for social security. The list goes on and on.

So how on earth can Jeanne be a grandmother?

I’m sure that Jeanne could have done all those things that I did first on her own just fine, but I like to think that following in my footsteps eased her way a little bit, that North Side School and swimming pools and the University of Illinois and motherhood were all a little bit less scary knowing that I was there. I like to think that it was comforting to have a big sister who knew the ropes.

So how can Jeanne be a grandmother?

Despite what social security says, I barely feel old enough to be a grandmother myself. It was only yesterday, it seems like, that I joined the ranks of mothers. My baby sister is much too young to be a grand mother.

So how can Jeanne be a grandmother?

It’s not as though she’s that far ahead of me. My own grandbabies are no longer just the proverbial twinkles in their daddys’ eyes. My first two grandbabies are firmly entrenched in their mommys’ rapidly expanding bellies! And I’m going to meet them soon. But I haven’t met them yet.

How on earth can Jeanne be a grandmother?

While I’m dreaming of tiny bundles of joy and trying to remember my old repertoire of lullablies, Jeanne is cuddling Baby Flynn and singing real songs. She’s deciding if she’s a Grannie or a Grandma, buying itty bitty boy clothes, learning how to work the newest carseats, trying to remember that babies no longer sleep on their stomachs, and falling madly, crazy in love. And she can’t stop smiling!

I can’t believe that Jeanne’s a grandmother!

There’s a whole lot I don’t know about this whole grandmother thing. I’m used to blankets on babies and umbrella strollers. I’ve never swaddled a baby, hooked up a baby monitor, or attached a car seat to a base in a car. And I’ve never watched my own baby be in charge of a much loved infant. It’s all going to be a bit scary. It’s going to be crazy. It’s going to be wonderful. I think it will be comforting to have a sister who knows the ropes.

Yeah!! Jeanne’s a grandmother!

Grandma

     Yesterday I found myself flying home from Washington D.C. with a cell phone full of baby pictures of my week-old grandson, Flynn, and a brand new title of "Grandmother."  Or maybe nana, mimi, baba, grams, gigi, or one of the other non-traditional grandmother names that seem to be preferred these days.
     My moniker's still up in the air.  I used to think I had a strong opinion about it--not so much about what he'd actually call me, but with some pretty strong notions about what I didn't want to be called.
     One of my own grandmothers was called "Ma," a name she got from her first grandchild and that was handed down to the rest of us as we came along.  It was the only name I ever called her for 25 years, and it never crossed my mind that she might have preferred something different--something a little more sophisticated or modern.  "Ma" was who she was.  It was only as an adult that it began to sound a little Hatfield and McCoy to me.  Backwoods, hillbillyish.  It might have been right for her, but it wasn't right for me. I definitely didn't want to be a "Ma."
     Nor did I want to be a "Granny," the name given by my cousins to their other grandmother.  This just sounded way too frumpy, conjuring up a stout, gray haired, farm lady, wearing a faded apron around her waist while wringing the necks of chickens.  Actually, it sounded pretty much like who Granny was.
     But not like who I am.  I'm a modern grandmother just like my contemporaries.  We don't  have white hair-- and won't--unless we choose to.  Even then, we'll probably call it platinum.  We still shop at the Gap, cook with olive oil instead of lard, and buy our chickens precut and mainly deboned.
     And, although we anxiously look forward to grandkids, we cringe a little at the thought of being called something as old-fashioned as grandma, or granny, or ma.
     Flynn has already made a big impression on me.  As soon as I held him that first day in the hospital, I knew I'd recognize him anywhere.  At least until I saw him in the nursery with five other swaddled babies, three of whom also had dark hair and big eyes, and two of those who shared his blue name plate.  I was too far away to read names, so ended up waving to them all, just in case.
     Over the course of the next 10 days I had a lot more face time with Flynn, and I'm positive I'd recognize him in the nursery now.  He's the one that likes the orange pacifier better than the green one, and who sucks on his fists when the orange one isn't near at hand.  He makes cute little noises and funny little faces, wrinkling his forehead and scrunching his mouth into dozens of different pouts and an occassional grin.  Maybe not all that different from those other babies in the nursery, except that his face is firmly imprinted on my heart.  I'd recognize him anywhere.
     I'm more worried about him recognizing me.  I won't get to see him again for another month, and after that he'll be flying off to Africa for two years, and then to some other foreign country as his parents traverse the world with their careers in the foreign service.
     Not exactly the relationship I had with Ma, who lived just a short bike ride away and cooked Sunday dinner for the whole extended family every single week.  And not like the relationship my cousins had with Granny, who lived just a short walk away down a country road.  My relationship with Flynn will be a more modern one, with a lot of our future face time occurring over Skype instead of across a dinner table.
     Flynn and I practiced his "oohs" and "aahs" during my visit, but he's not going to be calling me anything for quite a while.  The ball's in my court, and I'm a little surprised to find myself leaning towards the rather old-fashioned "Grandma."  I think it's because I'd like to bring something a little traditional into this modern relationship.  But I'm not totally committed.  
     I'm pretty sure that if I'm ever on Skype and  hear a "Ma!" floating across cyberspace, I'll change my mind.
     "I'm right here Flynn."

Mushroom Hunting

May, 2011

As a spine surgeon, Jim doesn’tusually operate on a patient until all other treatment modalities have been exhausted and the patient is still suffering extreme discomfort. Therefore, most of his patients come out of surgery feeling very much better than they did before surgery. It’s not at all uncommon for a patient to thank Jim for “giving me my life back!” And because so many patients are happy with their surgical results, he frequently gets small personal gifts from grateful patients. By far the most common gift he gets is a plateful of chocolate chip cookies. It’s not hard to figure out that he is a chocolate chip affectionado since he actually has one of his offices decorated in chocolate chip paraphernalia. And his annual chocolate chip cookie bakeoff is well known around the hospital. It’s a rare week that he doesn’t come home with someone’s version of his favorite cookie.

The second most common gift he gets is something Star War or Star Trek related. Going into a doctor’s office with a life sized Spock on the door and filled with everything from Star Wars collectible figures to a stuffed Yoda is an immediate give-away as to Jim’s extracurricular passions.

Other patients like to share their own specialties. He had a patient once who loved to make bread and arrived monthly with fresh baked loaves of his newest speciality. Another patient keeps Jim regularly supplied with homemade beef jerky. And another keeps us well stocked with home grown hot peppers.

But the best patient gift that Jim ever received was one that never made it home! Years ago a patient showed up at his office with a two pound sack of morel mushrooms that he had found, carefully soaked, and proudly presented to a surprised Jim. Jim, born and raised in Peoria, is not exactly a ‘big city’ person, but he’s definitely not ‘small town’ either. So he was clueless about the glories of wild mushrooms and had no appreciation for what a wonderful gift he was being given. Knowing Jim, I’m sure that the generous mushroom hunter had no idea of how taken aback Jim was at his unusual gift. I’m sure that he had no idea that Jim’s first thought was something along the lines of “Oh my God, I’m going to be poisoned!” And I’m sure that he had no idea that Jim was very happy to give away the mushrooms to his nurse and nurse practitioner, both small town girls, both well aware of what a magnificent gift it was.

I, also a small town girl, was horrified when Jim came home and told me about the mushrooms! I’m guessing that I shrieked! I may even have cried! Needless to say, to this day Jim has never again given away anything to his nurses without checking with me first. However, also needless to say, no patient has ever again given Jim morel mushrooms.

Several weeks ago Jim and I were having dinner with Leslie and Joe when the subject of mushrooms came up and I told them the story of the morel mushrooms. Joe, much more a city person than Jim, born and bred in the Chicago suburbs, was shocked at the idea of someone going out into the woods and picking mushrooms. “How do you know which ones aren’t poisonous?” he asked.

And I realized that in fact I had no idea. In actuality I know nothing about mushrooms. I just know a morel mushroom when I see it--and, sadly, I’ve not see one since I left for college! But growing up in a small town in Illinois, I went mushroom hunting every spring. Mushroom season was always short and usually better if we had a rainy spring. Mushrooms are cagy things, popping up in different places every year. Everyone is rural towns have their favorite spots, and no one likes to tell their mushroom secrets. My dad must have taught me what they look like when I was really small because I have no memory of ever wondering if what I found was poisonous or not. But I have grand memories of tromping around the woods near my uncle’s farm with my dad, searching around trees and tree stumps and occasionally finding a mushroom to throw in my bag. I have memories of my dad going mushroom hunting with friends and coming home with a bagful, proud smile on his face, the mighty provider bringing home our dinner. And I have wonderful memories of my mother soaking the mushrooms, then very lightly breading them and then frying them in butter. I have happy, happy memories of our family together, every spring, gathered around the table eating those smalltown delicacies. And I have absolutely no memory of ever worrying about being poisoned!

“What did they taste like?” my son in law asked me.

“Delicious...they were delicious,” I told him.

Fried morel mushrooms weren’t the only delicious things I remember from growing up. There were my grandmother’s homemade noodles and her homemade rolls, there was my Aunt Alta’s no flour chocolate cake.

Maybe it’s just as well that Jim didn’t bring home that bag of mushrooms. Maybe they wouldn’t have tasted as good as I remember. Maybe I’ll just remember how delicious everything was!

Memories

  Ellen and I remember some things from our childhood differently.  She remembers getting full size candy bars on Halloween from Mrs. Miller at the north end of our block.  I remember getting those full size candy bars from Mrs. Tarble at the south end.

  She remembers going out trick-or-treating no more than two nights every year.  I remember going out every single night the entire week before Halloween.  

  And those red Marshallette boots that Ellen talks about in her first blog post, I very distinctly remember them being white.

  Our parents are both gone, so there's no referee available to set us straight when we butt heads about these memory discrepancies.  Although, in all honesty, I'm not sure they would be much help even if they were here, since we trick-or-treated unaccompanied by parents, and spent a large part of our childhood running out the front door at the beginning of the day, with the sole warning of "be home before dark."  

  This isn't to say that we had bad parents.  They were great.  Ellen and I both remember an idyllic childhood and grew up thnking we were the center of our parents' world.  It just turns out that maybe we weren't.  At least not in the same sense as kids are now.  

  This was brought home to me when I read Ellen's second blog about her memory of 9-11, and how she knew where each of her grown kids were when that memorable event happened.  I was struck by what she wrote because I remember where my kids were too. And I'm pretty sure that my memory of the recent death of bin Laden will be framed just as much by where my kids were in their lives as where I was in mine.

  I'm not sure why, but parents these days seem much more intimately involved in the lives of their children, even when those children are adults.   Ellen and I have both had adult children living in our homes, and days seldom pass without  phone calls and texts between us and our grown kids.  There are also Facebook pages to check, blogs to read, and online scrabble games to play to keep us informed and in touch. 

  When the kids were younger, Ellen was cheering in the bleachers at every single game her kids played in and singing along at every musical performance.  I gave myself permission to stay home from most of my kids' away games, but was never able to completely get rid of the guilt that came along with that luxury. We both drove the kids to school every day, picked them up from practices, and, in the summer, put on our own bathing suits and went with them to the pool.

   In contrast, Ellen and I walked to school with friends every day and road our bikes across town to the swimming pool, where we stayed by ourselves until it closed. Although we grew up before Title 9, and were relegated to being cheerleaders and Marshellettes instead of sports stars, I don't remember Mom going to a single game where we cheered.  I remember Dad being there occassionally, but I'm pretty sure he was on the sidelines watching the game rather than Ellen or me.  As we got older and moved out, once and for good, we kept in touch with our parents almost entirely with weekly phone calls on Sunday nights.   

  Remembering this more relaxed age of parenting has made me wonder if I might be mistaken about another memory I've long been sure that Ellen was wrong about.  

  She remembers little plastic toys being thrown out of airplanes at our town's annual easter egg hunts.  I've always insisted that, even in a small town in the '50's, where bicycle helmets were unheard of, toys didn't have warnings, sunscreen and seatbelts hadn't been invented,  and kids went to swimming pools and roamed the streets unattended from morning til night, nobody was foolish enough to be throwing little plastic toys out of airplanes and into the wide eyes of waiting kids.  

  But maybe I've been wrong.   As best I can remember, there weren't any parents around to stop it.

  

Remembering 9/11

Sunday night as soon as the new broke on tv that Osama Ben Laden had been found and killed, the first thing I did was call my friend Nancy Hatch. “Nancy,” I said, “are you watching tv? Turn on your tv!” Nine years, seven months, and nineteen days ago, on that fateful September 11, 2001 morning, Nancy had called me. “Ellen, are you watching tv? Turn your tv on,” my friend had told me. And so I did, just in time to watch the second plane fly into the tower, just in time to watch the towers collapse. For the rest of the day and much of the night I sat mesmorized, compulsively switching from CNN to MSNBC to CBS to ABC, looking for someone to explain, to make sense of what seemed inexplicable. Now, all these years later, it suddenly seemed important that I once again share the experience with Nancy.

After I knew that Nancy's tv was on, as I curled up on the couch and waited for President Obama to speak, I found my mind wandering back to memories of that bright September morning. What did I remember? I remember Nancy calling when I was in the kitchen, sitting at the kitchen table working the Chicago Tribune crossword puzzle and watching Johanna eat breakfast. Steve was home, asleep in the basement. I was feeling unsettled in my life. We had recently moved Leslie to Chicago to start medical school at Northwestern, and, although she had been living away from home for the past four years while she attended the University of Illinois, we had still shared a zip code. We had also just moved Jill to Grinnell, Iowa, where she was a freshman at Grinnell College. Johanna had just started classes at Parkland College. And we were preparing to move Steve to Chicago where he was once more trying to figure out what to do with his life. My nest was emptying quickly. My world was changing.

I’m a born and bred Midwesterner. New York City was familiar to me mainly through television. In 2001 the only people I knew who even lived in New York were Karen Pickard’s sister and her family and Charles Bellafiore, the son of my next door neighbor. I knew that Karen’s sister lived on the Upper East side, and I was pretty sure that Charles wasn’t hanging around the World Trade Center. I had only been to New York twice in my life, but Sue Marshall and I had, on a long ago trip to see Broadway plays, eaten at Windows on the World on the top of the Trade Center and watched the amazing lights of New York from its wide windows. Sitting in my living room I remembered riding up in the incredibly fast elevators, the same elevators in which hundreds of people had been trapped.

I remember having this incredible need to know where everyone I loved was as I watched the tragedy unfold. I knew Jim was at work. I knew that Steve and Johanna were sitting with me, engrossed in what was happening. But I didn’t know where Jill and Leslie were. I couldn’t reach Leslie right away. I learned later that she was in fact sitting in class. When it became apparent that what was happening was bigger than just New York, that the Pentagon had also been hit, and that there was a rogue airplane heading somewhere, all I could think of was all the targets in Chicago, the Sears Tower, the Hancock Building. The Hancock Building which was only blocks from Leslie’s medical school.

Leslie called me before I hit full panic mode from the cell phone we had happily sent her off to school with. She was, she told me, sitting in class when her professor told everyone what had happened and told them to go home, that class was over for the day. She headed back to her dorm, found herself staring out the window at the Hancock Building with its metal beams that formed giant X’s all across the side. Her dorm, she told me, was not where she wanted to be, so she grabbed her roller blades and rollerbladed north along the lakefront to her boyfriend’s apartment along with thousands of other Chicagoans who were fleeing the central city.

Jill called right after Leslie and assured me that she was all right. I can still hear her telling me that there was nothing to worry about in Grinnell, that the tallest building on the whole campus was only three stories high.

That September morning I had never heard the name Osama Ben Laden. I had never heard the name Barak Obama. I had never thought of the words “Let’s Roll” as a battle cry. I had never heard the term weapon of mass destruction. I had never thought that an airplane could be a weapon of mass destruction. I had never heard of suicide bombers or underwear bombers or shoe bombers. I had never worried about the size of my shampoo bottle in my airplane carryon. I knew that long ago morning that my world was changing as my children were spreading their proverbial wings and leaving the nest. But I could not have imagined how much the rest of my world would change.

Leslie called me last Sunday night. “Is your tv on?” she asked, “Are you watching?”

I was watching. I have never stopped watching.