Thursday, May 23, 2013

BEING A MOM IS A GIFT: BECOMING A GRAND MOTHER IS A CHOICE


On her first time sleep-over at my house more than a year ago, I
Public domain photograph.
felt overwhelmed by the electronic gadgets her mom had sent along for the visit.  I didn’t feel I could completely trust the baby monitor that would supposedly allow me to have a worry free night in my room on the second floor while my precious granddaughter snoozed in her crib on the lower level.  So I slept folded into the loveseat in the room adjacent to hers.  This time, however - having practiced with each setting to make sure I could hear every sound from the nursery -  I was comfortable in my own bed upstairs.  Of course the fact that, at 2, she could call out my name if she needed me, helped considerably.

But, a little case of the sniffles (with the monitor turned up high – I could hear every one) and the sweet voice calling my name (what a brilliant child, to remember where she is in the middle of the night!), brought me to the side of her crib.  The Dr. Spockishness of the 70’s would have encouraged me to walk away and let her “tough it out.”  The joy of connecting with (and in) another generation, allowed me to scoop her up in my arms and plunk down in the closest thing I have to Nana’s rocker.  There in the wee hours of the morning, I compared my recollections of similar situations with my own daughters, where my frantic rocking in a fancy “Bentwood” had a goal – to get them back to sleep.  I knew that the extra hours devoted to a single runny nose would have taken their toll on the all of us the next day.  I distinctly remember my prayer: “God, if you really love me you’ll let me sleep through one night!”

This evening, happily, I indulged myself as I never had time to do with my own babies (four in six years is a lot).   I’m transported back two more generations, and, as Madi and I sit there snuggling and dozing and humming, I find myself sitting once more on my own grandmother’s lap.  I recall distinctly a night when I was about three, sitting, rocking, and somehow knowing that I would want to emblazon this moment on my thought - freeze it in time - forever.  And I did.

I don’t remember a lot.  There must be as many differences as there are similarities.  I know my little head must have rested gently in the same safe sport just inside her shoulder, nestled near her collar bone.  I know she was rounder and softer than I.  Her spare time was spent making cookies for me, rather than power-walking with an iPod.  She could sing the most beautifully strange German songs.  I still know the words to ……… although they’ve probably morphed into something unrecognizable to a real German as these five decades have disappeared into a dream.  Madi seems happier with her own rendition of “Twinkle, twinkle.”

Nana made me hot chocolate before I “scrubbed” my teeth with the funny tasting tooth powder she and Grandpa still liked to use. That sleepy-time beverage was made of whole milk – the kind you needed to shake up before you poured it out of its glass bottle – simmered on the stove in a pan where she magically added powdered cocoa and scoops of sugar.  And we got to make it into a tea party, eating her homemade sugar cookies off a pretty china plate that my mom used as a baby.  It had a picture of a baby animal in the middle, a special place for the spoon and the fork on each side, and a gold band painted around the outside edge.  I think maybe my great aunt Elsa painted it.  Madi and I had enjoyed some instant “no sugar added” hot chocolate straight from the microwave along with a banana on my new, black Pier I plates before reading our bedtime story.  (I can’t remember the last time there was a cookie in this house.)

Nana and I had sat together in a caned rocking chair with gently bowled indentations where her father had cracked walnuts as a boy.  Madi and I were sitting in my retro green naugahyde rocker.

Tonight we couldn’t look out into the sparkling Florida night sky through the big glass jalousies of “my” bedroom at Nana’s house.  But we can enjoy the stars thrown onto the ceiling of the nursery by the electric turtle shell Madi’s mom sent - along with a humidifier the size of a giant globe, a plug-in vaporizer night light, a jar of instant noodles and chicken, 7 pacifiers, and enough clothes to stay for a week.

Tonight we don’t hear the sound of crickets wafting into the room, celebrating a warm southern evening.  But we have our favorite “nature sounds” CD on the portable DVD player on this Chicago winter night.  (And, of course, the breeze of the humidifier.)

She’s back asleep soundly in her crib now.  Looking ahead to breakfast, I’m sad to say that I can’t produce fresh squeezed orange juice from the tree outside my childhood window.  And I am ashamed to admit I won’t attempt a breakfast of Nana’s cinnamon toast, made under the over broiler with great care (because it used to burn easily – what with using real sugar, rather than Splenda®).  Madi and I will enjoy our brand new, frozen mini pancakes right out of the microwave.  Our fruit course will be Smuckers spreadable preserves (no syrup here).  I’m sure we’ll love it just as much…because we have each other.

With all the differences, I am particularly struck by the great over-arching sameness of timeless love we can actually choose to share with our grandchildren – and it is a choice.  Unlike the flexibility in timing that my grandmother had, I have a full time job. Carving out precious moments with a precious little person isn’t always easy or as frequent as I would like.  But I can’t imagine anything being more worthy of the effort.  As I sat there last night enfolding this dear one in my arms, I felt, with absolute certainty that Nana was enveloping us both.

Christie Clarke

Thursday, May 16, 2013

WHAT’S IN A NAME?



I can remember the months of debate, contemplation, indecision, consultation, and angst that went into the selection of a name for my first baby.  Everyone on both sides of our burgeoning family had an opinion, recollection, or historical [hysterical?] perspective.  There was an axe to grind, a curse to avoid, an ancestor to honor, or a simple desire for alliteration [Amanda Alt].

In those days it was “pot luck” on the sex of the babe, so we needed to be ready for either possibility.  The first time around, I was actually soliciting input.  In responding to my father-in-law’s query about a possible boy’s name, I tried to dodge the bullet.  He was Richard Jr., my husband was Richard III, and I knew I didn’t want to beget a dynasty.  Silence fell over the family reunion as they awaited my answer.  As an attempted diversion, I remarked as lightly as I could, “All I know is that we won’t name him Walter!”  The idea of a “Walt Alt” had seemed so hysterically funny to me…not so much to anyone else.  Hushed disbelief.  No laugher.  Apparently no one had told me about their famous Uncle Walter Alt!  

That was only the first round of four nomenclature deliberations as our little family eventually swelled to six!

Once they were all born, named, and launched I thought I was done with naming concerns.

Fast forward two decades.  In facing the prospect of welcoming the
first grandchild to the fold, I found myself facing that naming conundrum again.  But this time I was selecting my own new label.  How strange it was to find myself in the time warp of third generation name picking.  Determined not to wear the title of Granny or something similar, I tried on and adopted my moniker of “Nani.”  I told myself and anyone who would listen that I wasn’t vain.  I just didn’t want to appear either regal or dowdy [read: old?]. 
Photo by Gil Feliciano

Hummmm.  That had a familiar ring to it.  Somewhere around the arrival of my third “grand,” I recalled with some chagrin how offended I had been by my mother-in-law’s pronouncement some twenty years before.  I had felt I was bestowing upon her the most precious gift in the world - a grandchild - and asked how she felt about becoming a grandmother.  I vividly recall her saying emphatically that she was, “too young to be called Grandma, so your baby may call me Oma!” [German version - same concept].

It’s too late for me to apologize to “Oma” for my reaction to what had seemed like a heartless declaration of disinterest in her new granddaughter.  Now I understand her reticence to enter this next phase of her life.  She had no way of knowing the glory and delight that were awaiting her - whatever her title.  She didn’t realize that the descriptor of grandmother wasn’t an indication of advancing years, but of increasing honor and trust and more love than she’d ever known!

As my own Pennsylvania Dutch grandmother humbly remarked regarding her late-in-life discoveries: “Too soon, too old.  Too late, too smart.” 

Apparently that applies to us all!

Christie Clarke

Thursday, May 9, 2013

THE GREYING OF AMERICA: Making It Work For You

It’s not just the graying of America.  It’s the wising up, too.  If we’ve got to wear the moniker of “boomer” we may as well make some noise…even if it may sound like whining.    


I’ve found numerous ways to make the whole age thing work for me.  I just got off the phone with a wonderful young man at the phone company.  Having overcome the very real desire to ask to speak to someone who shared my first language, I was launched into a mind-boggling comparative analysis of rate plans, speeds of connectivity, and bundling options.  I’d absorbed all that I possibly could, taken as many notes as a doctoral candidate, hummed my own version of “I Am Woman Hear Me Roar,” and was on the brink of flying off the top edge of the learning curve, when I heard myself say, “Don’t sell me anything you wouldn’t want
Photo by Juhan Sonin
your mother to have.”  (Did I mention this sweet young voice sounded - and turned out to be - younger than some of my shoes?)   And as if that weren’t shocking enough, I followed up with … ”or God will get you.”  A laugh is very important at this juncture because placing curses on people is counterproductive.



I’ve found that kids (er, young people) are so taken aback by the maternal reference that technological information is delivered in slower cadence and more dulcet tones.  It’s distilled and shared in more palatable, bite-sized chunks.  The patience level (for both of us) is elevated, and most importantly, I’ve found that I’m talking to someone in which I now have implicit trust.  After all who would lie to his mother?! 



This kinder, gentler voice not only gave me 2 months of free local service, but waived the service and line connection fee.  I was able to speak (at least marginally) intelligently to the issue of wireless routers and modems.  (Haven’t I spent enough time listening to my four sons-in-law at Thanksgiving dinners?)  But I fear he could hear me pouting as he asked me to disentangle the interlaced ambiguity of wires and BPBs (black plastic boxes [I can create my own acronym – everyone else does]) which I’d tried to disguise as my wicker hamper.  Count the phone jacks on the back of which one?  I began to curse the day I’d decided to take the leap into the world of digital voice - which brought still another glowing wonder into my hamper.  There’s a satisfaction guarantee (or was that “risk free”?) to determine that my wireless router would function properly with this provider’s new system. I received the double assurance from my new friend that I was “obviously clever enough” to handle the CD’d instructions for installation by myself and “would enjoy mastering a new skill.” 



There weren’t enough hours in the day to explain what it’s like to have to scale the walls of Donna Reed-ville (escaping the limits of the 60’s) in order to venture into the iPod jungle, learn about managing web sites, and master the vagaries of spreadsheets.  He doesn’t realize that I’ve imbibed more high tech knowledge in the last 5 years, than I did in the first 55 years of my life.  When I did inquire into whether or not the guarantee would extend into my not killing myself if this mélange of wires didn’t function properly, he rather somberly assured me that he would never suggest anything to his mother that would lead her to that.  (I couldn’t believe he’d given credence to my playing of the mother card!)



I did sense a little shutter when I suggested that perhaps he’d like to come install my newest collection of pulsating green lights destined to connect me to the universe through his service provider.  He has, after all encouraged me to take my technological life quite literally in my own hands.  “But I’m in Nebraska” was his plaintive reply.  (Did I detect a note of genuine familial regret in his voice?)



It’s nice to think that all my connections will work harmoniously…that dream of having a provider that really does provide (not just promise) all the services needed to function in this ADHD’d environment.



But right now I have to go back into my bedroom and unbraid the maze of coaxial cables, phone lines, and extension cords that form the nest in which my 3 BPB’s snuggle, lights blinking happily away.



Next week when my new modem arrives, I’ll rejoice in knowing that while I’m “expanding my horizons,” somewhere in Nebraska is a nice young man feeling happy to have helped make my life a little better…he even gave me his direct number.  Surely he didn’t think that after all my technological successes up to this point, I’d do something foolish!