thoughts

Chance Encounters

/ momshieb / 21 Comments

I took Ellie to the grocery store today. It was a gorgeous, sunny day, and I felt full of energy and strength.

So off we went to the supermarket, armed with an extra diaper, some wipes, a few graham crackers and our grocery list.  I put the baby into the seat in front of the cart, but realized quickly that the straps were too darn small to go around her, even at her tender age of 8 months.

So we went through the store with me carefully holding both of her hands as I steered the cart. When I needed to dash away to grab an item off the shelves, I did it with my heart in my mouth, fearing that she’d topple out and I’d lose my favorite job as “Nonni in Chief”.

We were doing fine, except for the fact that every adult over the age of 19 had to stop us to say how adorable Ellie is. Truth to tell? I didn’t mind at all. In fact, I kind of loved it when strangers would smile at her and she’d look up at me with those deep brown eyes for reassurance.

Anyway, as we made our way through the store we were greeted by two grampas, one grandma, a doting aunt and three young mothers.

I thought that we were on our way out the door when I suddenly noticed that Ellie was staring up with serious intensity at someone off to our right.  I looked over my shoulder and saw a tall, thin man in a tattered black sweatshirt.  He was looking at Ellie with the same seriousness, but I saw that his blue eyes were rimmed with red.  He had a scruffy beard and lank, not-too-clean hair.  His arms were cradled, holding an array of tall beer cans.

When our eyes met, the man quickly looked away.

“Wow,” I said to him as we passed, “She’s really looking at you so seriously!”  I smiled in his general direction, but didn’t think too much about it. After all, I had just spent an hour chatting with various strangers who had paused to admire the baby.

But this time it was a little bit different.  As I made my casual comment, the tall man met my eyes with a look that almost seemed like a  mix of hope and embarrassment. He tilted his head forward a bit, his black hood falling almost over his eyes.

“That is a really beautiful baby,” he said solemnly.

“Thank you!” I replied.

He stopped walking, and I saw that his hands were shaking a bit. He looked me right in the eyes with a sadness and intensity that tugged at my heart.

“No,” he said. “Thank you for giving me the opportunity to say that.”

I didn’t know how to answer him. I had such a clear image of this man, struggling and sad, gazing in silence at beautiful children.

We both moved on, and found ourselves in the same checkout line, where my friend Martha was waiting to ring us up. I caught her eye as the scruffy man placed his beer cans on her counter.  Before she could finish his order, though, he turned abruptly and walked back to Ellie and I.

He reached out his right hand, his fingers stained and bent.  He gently touched the soft hair on the top of her head, and leaned close to her face.

“My God bless you, beautiful baby, every day for the rest of your life.” Ellie looked at him, serious and intent, meeting his gaze.  I was silent, not sure of what to say.

He straightened up, and looked at me.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“I’m Karen,” I said. “What’s your name?”

“Michael,” he answered holding out his hand.

We shook hands, and I was surprised at how strong and sure his palm felt in mine.

“Nice to meet you, Michael,” I said, “Good luck to you.”

“Good luck?” He laughed, and pointed to Ellie sitting quietly in the grocery cart. “I already have good luck.”

I have no idea where Michael is tonight. Whether he is warm, safe, fed, comforted.  But all afternoon, as Ellie and I had lunch and played and sang and as I rocked her to sleep in my arms, all I could wonder was this. Was Michael someone’s Daddy? Did he once hold a baby of his own and gaze at her with love and tenderness? I don’t know.

But I do know that at one point in time he was some woman’s son. He was the beloved baby cradled in someone’s arms.

Whatever has happened to this man in his life, I find it profoundly beautiful that he has kept his gentle spirit intact, and that given the slightest encouragement, he is still able to share that spirit with strangers.

Plus Size? Plus What?

/ momshieb / 8 Comments

I’ve been thinking about the strong reaction that comedienne Amy Schumer had to having her image published in a “plus size” edition of Glamour magazine.  I’ve been thinking about it because I honestly have a whole LOT of reactions to the whole issue.

Number 1: Who the hell needs to buy a magazine called Glamour anyway? Most of us are living in the burbs, trying to keep the laundry done, the dogs fed, the bills paid and the fridge stocked. Glamour? No one I know has the slightest idea of what that word even means.

Number 2: What the F* is “Plus sized”? Plus what? Like, “You are a woman, with extra”. Extra depth? Extra personality? Extra cellulite? What?

Number 3: Amy Schumer is fabulous. Smart, funny, articulate, warm, open and beautiful. In every way.

This whole thing just strikes a real nerve in this old Nonni.  I will tell you a story to explain my anger at this entire pile of bullshit.

When my oldest child, my daughter Kate, was 14 years old, she won an award for a piece of art that she had created. She was invited to the Massachusetts State house for a special reception with other award winning young artists.  I was so proud of her!

In preparation for the big event, I took my Kate shopping for a dressy pair of pants. We went to the mall, and into a popular store for young people. The salesgirl met us, asked a couple of questions and took some measurements. “Ooooooh,” she sighed to Kate, “Wow! You’re a size 00!”

That means “double zero”.

Kate looked at me, unsure of how to respond. My mama bear self reared up right then. I sure as hell did know how to respond.

“Excuse me?” I asked in my frostiest voice. “Are you telling my daughter that she is less than zero?”

The young salesgirl blinked at me. “Um. Yes. She’s so slim. She’s in a size double zero.”

Now here’s the thing.  My Kate was barely pubescent.  She had always been thin, but that was party because she’d had some health problems.

I absolutely hated the fact that at the very cusp of womanhood, my beautiful, tender daughter was told that the smaller and skinnier she was, the more admired she would be. Even more than that, though, I was completely appalled that the smallest size pants in that store were telling a woman “You are even less than nothing!” And: “We love that!”

I blew off a little steam at the poor salesgirl, and hauled my young artist out of there.  I stood her in atrium of the mall, my hands on her shoulders. I looked into her big brown eyes. “Kate,” I said, “You are young. Young women are often thin. You are lovely. You are going to get bigger and even more beautiful.”  She nodded. I’m pretty sure she had no idea of what had pissed me off so much.

So we went to Sears, where the sizes ran in actual numbers.  We got the pants, and a nice white blouse. We went to the ceremony in Boston, and we had a lovely time.

But here’s the point: Sizes need to run in normal, predictable ordinal numerals.  You know, the smallest would be “1”, the next would be “2” and so on.  No “Double zero”. No “Zero”. No “Plus”.

Women should be able to buy a pair of jeans without being told how the people who buy a magazine called “Glamour” choose to to rate us.

Amy Schumer, you are a goddess.

And so is my still slim daughter.

 

Puttering Around

/ momshieb / 11 Comments

When I was a little girl, I remember that Saturdays in our house were full of activity. My mom would give all six kids our chores. We’d clean our rooms, vacuum, help with laundry. Mom often did grocery shopping on Saturday mornings, and I remember the kitchen being filled with paper bags and food and noise.

But I mostly remember my Dad, in a white T shirt or an old sweatshirt, a pencil tucked behind one ear. He would move around the house and yard all day long, hammering, sawing, building, taking apart. He planted, pruned, raked, mowed. He was usually either humming or whistling as he bustled around.

I remember trailing after him, asking, “What are you doing, Daddy?”  His answer was always the same, whether he was planting a garden or building a shed.

“I’m just puttering,” he’d say.

“Puttering?”  It sure looked like work to me!

Now the years have passed, and Dad is gone. Today would have been his 89th birthday. I miss him.

I felt a little restless this morning, a little sad and irritable.

I decided to clean out the cabinets under my bathroom sinks, so that all will be safe when Ellie starts to crawl. As I did, I noticed some spots in the bathroom that needed to have the paint touched up. So I did that.

And while I was in the garage finding the paint, I saw that the garden tools were all disorganized and needed cleaning. I wiped them down, placed them in a clean plastic bucket, threw out old rags and bits of string.

When that was finished, I came upstairs to grab a second cup of coffee. But I noticed that my ceramic Easter Bunnies were still out on display. I wrapped them carefully and put them in a bag to go back in the attic. Realizing that I’d be going to the trouble of pulling down the attic stairs and climbing up there, I decided to put away some of the things that the baby has outgrown. Which lead me to pack up my sweaters and winter clothes. I hauled all of it upstairs and moved around some boxes to make it easier to find things.

Two hours later, I sat down to catch my breath.

And looked at a smiling picture of my Dad in my living room.

“Hey, Dad,” I said out loud. “I think I’ve been puttering.”

This Is Just Unfair

/ momshieb / 8 Comments

I mean, seriously.

Seriously?

How am I supposed to get anything done when I spend all day with this person:

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Really?

I’m supposed to put her down and give her toys, then go do the freakin’ laundry?  I don’t think so.

This child is 8 months old.  By rights, she should basically still just be a little blob of babiness.   But, no.

She is a full on DIVA.

What am I supposed to do?

Every time I tell her, “Play by yourself for a bit. I’ll be right back,” she makes a face like this one:

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Where are you GOING?

How can I walk away?

This is completely unfair.

I mean,  yes, sure. I agreed to watch the baby this year.  I did NOT agree to sit in a love soaked stupor 4o hours a week, looking like an idiot.

I did NOT agree to melt into a puddle every time this child smiled at me.  I didn’t think I would be giving up the basics, like going to the bathroom, or reading the news, or doing the dishes.

This is just NOT fair.

Look at that face.

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Wait, watch this!!!!

You know you wouldn’t be able to walk away either.  Admit it.

So. Not. Fair.

 

Fading Away

/ momshieb / 22 Comments

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I haven’t written here for quite a while.

I haven’t even updated “The Nonni Chronicles”, my record of my granddaughter’s latest accomplishments.

Why, you ask?

Well, I’ll tell you.

Because I have realized that I need to try my level best to figure out a way to make some money off all of these words.  I mean, I retired last June, and my income fell by more than 50%.  But my expenses didn’t.

Now, I need to tell all of you that I do charge my daughter for the daycare that I give to our Ellie. (gasp! looks of horror! head shakes! pursed lips!)

Yes.  Yes, indeed.  I do feel awful about this.  I feel horrible. I hate it, hate it, hate it. Having that baby girl every day is pure joy.  I am NOT exaggerating.  If I didn’t have her here every single day, grinning at me with her two tiny teeth, resting her head on my shoulder to sleep, eating breakfast and lunch with me……I think I would surely be in therapy for at least one mental disorder.

Having her here is such a treat!

But, alas, I digress.  I have to find a way to pay the damn bills.

So I have applied for literally EVERY online tutoring job there is.  Nothing. No response. Nuttin’.

And I have applied for every blogging job out there, too.

Nope. No go.

So. Sigh.

I am working on a book.

STOP that laughing!

I already wrote one novel. But its about a middle aged woman who realizes that she should retire from teaching and……yeah.  Boring.

So, I am now writing a more upbeat, hopefully funny women’s story.  With some sex.  And a fast pace.

Whatever.

All I can say is this: Sorry, sorry, sorry to the few folks who really follow this blog! I am letting you down. I know it!

It’s just that after diaper changes, bottles, naps, walks, essays, blogs, laundry and tutoring, I am not sure that I have much left to report.

Oh, but there is this!  Whenever I try to talk to a friend, sweet Miss Ellie opens those big brown eyes and starts to yell (and, yes, I mean  YELL) “RAH. RAHRAHRAHRAHRAH!”

Good Lord, I do so love that child.

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RAH!! RAHRAHRAHRAH!

Ah, Miss Ellie……

/ momshieb / 7 Comments

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Rockin’ her Daddy’s hat.

Way, way back, in the dawn of my history, when Paul and I were very young, we used to think about the upcoming weeks and tell ourselves, “I’m glad there is something to look forward to!”

Which means, of course, that there were times when we’d look at each other and think, “Ugh,  there is nothing to look forward to!”

I look back now, at my 22 year old self, and I think, “Are you kidding me? You’re twenty something, and you don’t think you have something to look forward to? You only have your ENTIRE LIFE, you idiot!”

But at 22, I wasn’t thinking that way. I was thinking, “What wonderful adventure is out there for me in the next week?”  I was young. I was foolish.  I didn’t really get it.

And then, at the wise old age of 29, I gave birth to my first child.  My wonderful, beautiful daughter Kate.  And everything changed in an instant.

Suddenly, I knew that I had “something to look forward to” for at least 20 years.  Every morning with my baby was a new beginning.  Every bath time was a treasure. Every meal an adventure.  I was enraptured, enamored, in love, entranced, enthralled.

Life was very, very good.

And then it went on.  Kate’s brothers were born, and the rhythm of my life was set.  I was a happy, busy Momma, and every passing week meant something new to look forward to. There were milestones and holidays and vacations and camping trips.  Birthdays and new schools and sports and plays and music.  Life was one big streak of “something to look forward to”.

And then they all grew up. And they moved away and started their own lives.

There suddenly wasn’t quite so much to look forward to, you know? Life was still happy and full, but the magical moments were gone.

And now, here I am, the full time day care provider for my little Ellie.  Now I am back to the days of making pancakes for someone who will light up with joy at the new taste. I am back to singing brand new songs, and reading exciting new books.

Tonight, when supper was over, I put our leftover coconut rice into a bowl.  I added an egg and some cream and cinnamon. I baked it for 20 minutes.  It smells fantastic.

I will go to bed tonight with something to look forward to.  I will give my beautiful Ellie a bowl of rice pudding for her breakfast tomorrow.

Life is a very beautiful thing.

Do the Right Thing

/ momshieb / 3 Comments

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“Do the Right Thing”.  I always thought it would be so easy.  Just do what’s right.

Easy!

Except that life doesn’t seem to work that way.

Take the situation with Mr. Trump and the protesters at his rallies.  On one hand, I strongly believe in the first amendment to our constitution. You know, that “Freedom of Speech” thing.  I believe that the hallmark of a healthy, basically democratic nation is that everyone has a right to speak his mind.

I like to believe that as a “card carrying member of the ACLU”, I would grant everyone that right.  I believe that the KKK has every right to assemble and to speak out.  And of course, I believe that right minded people have every right to assemble in protest against the KKK.

I was very upset when the Occupy Wall Street camps were shut down and when protesters were kept away from the sidewalks in front of the banks and hedge fund offices.  “Free Speech!”, I said.

So far, so good.  “Do the Right Thing”.  Let everyone speak his mind.

But then there is the old adage, “Your right to free speech ends at the tip of my nose.”  Meaning, I guess, that you can speak up as long as you aren’t harming anyone with your speech or your actions.

And we have to remember that we are not allowed to say just anything we want.  We can’t, they tell us, yell “Fire” in a crowded theater. That would be dangerous.

OK.

So what am I to think about the events at those Trump rallies?

First point: Trump and his minions have every right to speak their minds. They have the right to assemble.

But don’t those who oppose him also have the right to assemble in that place, to speak up against him?

Well, yes, of course they do!

Trump’s right to free speech, it seems to me, ends when he tells his people to physically hurt those who speak against him. “Beat the crap outta them. I’ll pay your legal bills.” That’s the “tip of my nose”phenomenon.

So his speech, when it is violent, SHOULD be shut down.  The “Right Thing” would be to protest and assemble and to shut him down.  Right?

But if those who protest against Trump’s hate speech yell threats, or carry out those threats, or throw punches, then they have give up their right to free speech in that place.

Right?

So. What is the “Right Thing”?

It isn’t as easy as it seems, is it?

All is Not Lost

/ momshieb / 16 Comments

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“Whoah, Nonni, you ROCK!”

I am about to turn 60 years old.

This is very old.  There are 60 seconds in a minute, 60 minutes in an hour, 60 years in a life that started way back in the olden days.

As a (gulp) 60 year old, I am used to forgetting things.  For example, tonight my husband and I were reminiscing about our college days. “Remember the time we were driving Lisa D. home from school?”, he began.  “Wait”, I had to interrupt. “She went to school with us?”

This is not uncommon for Paul and I.  I often get frustrated when he doesn’t remember that I told him about the party on Saturday.  He often gets frustrated when I tell him for the fourth time about the party on Saturday.   We are forgetful.

We sometimes joke with friends in our age group. “Aren’t we funny?”, we quip, “Trying to talk about a movie that we liked?”  We laugh because this is how we sound when we try to recommend a movie to those friends. “Yeah, its great! It stars that guy, what’s his name? He was in the TV show….you know the one with that woman….what’s her name? The woman who looks the one who used to be in the other show….about the, um…was it a mechanic?”  This can go on for hours before anyone in the room is able to make an actual connection and figure out the name of the movie in question.

If anyone even remembers that we were recommending movies.

So sometimes I feel like a daft old broad whose brain is made of swiss cheese.

BUT!  All is NOT yet lost!

Today I was sitting with my baby granddaughter Ellie, playing with her toys, stacking cups and reading board books. It seemed like a good time to find some music for her. So I opened up my computer and found Pandora.  I clicked on “Create a Station” and entered, “Sesame St. songs.”

Oh. My. God.

My youngest child is almost 24 years old. I haven’t watched Sesame St. for a wicked long time!

But that didn’t matter.

I am happy to report that this 60 year old grandmother was able to sing every single word of “Rubber Ducky”, “Let’s Go Driving in an Automobile” and “The Sesame St. Theme Song” without missing a beat.

Oh, yeah.

I may be chubby and gray and I may have been born before the word “hippie” was coined, but I still got it, baby!

Ellie was highly amused as I danced her around the living room today, crooning, “Rubber Ducky, joy of joys, when I squeeze you, you make noise!”

She thinks I’m awesome.

 

Adventures in Eating

/ momshieb / 4 Comments

Oh, my.  Oh, yummy. Oh, deliciousness.

I went to Dim Sum today with my husband and some of my siblings.  It is so much FUN.  If you are not familiar with Dim Sum, let me explain.

Here in Massachusetts, Dim Sum means driving into Boston’s Chinatown and going into a big restaurant that is packed, packed, packed with young Chinese families, mixed groups of Chinese and non-Chinese, college students, babies, toddlers, old Chinese couples and everyone else you can imagine.

There’s no real menu. You just sit at your round table and wait a minute.  Waiters and waitresses come around pushing steam carts full of all kinds of Chinese delicacies in small steam bowls and little porcelain dishes.

Generally speaking, you have no idea of what it is that you are asking for.  The waiter or waitress will point to the various steamed, fried or sauteed items on the cart and say, in very heavily accented English, “bean, beef, very good!” or “mussel, yes?” or “bao tzu, you like!”

I love it.

I love the whole idea of it. I love the incredible smells of the spicy foods. I love biting into a steamed bun and finding a sweet mouthful of something that tastes like custard. I love the adventure of chomping into a crisply fried bit of dough, with no idea what will be inside. Today’s surprises included shrimp and eggplant.

One of my favorite dishes at Dim Sum is spicy chicken feet. I am not sure why, but there is just something so out of the norm about sucking the spicy fat off of cooked chicken feet……

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So often, our lives are simply a set of repeating days.  Toast, coffee, read the news, go to work, eat lunch, home again for the usual dinner. Not bad, nice and comfy.  But still….

How lovely to have a chance to sample an entirely different culture just by going out for brunch!  When I go to Dim Sum, I have a chance to pretend that I am an adventurous world traveler with a love of mystery.  When I go to Dim Sum, I can let go of my usual ideas about food. I can dive into a plate of something sort of wiggly and cabbagy,  and smile at my brother as we both realize that we are munching on slices of spicy beef tripe.

Thank you to my wonderful brother Mark and his wife Sue, and to my sweet sister Liz, for coming to Dim Sum today!  Oh, yes.  And to the ever patient Paul, who would have been perfectly happy with a plate of waffles.

Next time, I hope to get more siblings and some of our kids to join us.  You haven’t lived until you’ve sucked on a chicken foot.

 

Beautiful Day

/ momshieb / 10 Comments

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It’s gray outside. Small pellets of sleet are falling on the frozen mud in the yard. A very cold wind is blowing.

The news is dominated by war, murder, anger, ugliness and fear.

It is a Beautiful Day!

My right hand is typing this, while my left cradles the warm, sweet blanket wrapped bundle of my sleeping Granddaughter.

In the past few days I have received news of a new baby girl and two brand new beautiful baby boys born to people I love.  I have heard news of another little one on the way.

And I am reminded that winter always ends. Political races always conclude. Wars wind down and borders shift. Old fights are ended and reconciliation is always a possibility.

Life continues. Every birth is hope renewed. Welcome, beautiful children! We love you and need you so much!