Parents

I heard a story recently about 2 young men in their 30s living together. They were friendly, not necessarily friends, and one saw that his roommate’s behavior had changed in a concerning manner. For a couple of weeks, the one man observed that the roommate had been staying in his room more than usual with the door closed; wasn’t talking much, going out or participating in activities or social gatherings; and maybe not eating or showering regularly. His demeanor had become alarming, and each day was more worrisome since he wasn’t bouncing back.

The man tried in various ways to communicate with his roommate, but he didn’t know how to reach him. Out of desperation and despite what young adults may feel should be the last option, he decided to call his roommate’s parents.

They were so very grateful; they were able to help him to get back to some sense of normalcy.   

In thinking about this story and how proud I was of this man to call his roommate’s parents, it occurred to me that we parents play a very unique role in our kids’ lives, regardless of their ages, for a few reasons: 1 – We have known our kids all of their lives – through the ups and downs, the big moments, the struggles and joys; 2 – We are forever rooting for their happiness and success; and 3 – We have traversed many of the roads they are traveling on now (i.e. raising kids, balancing work and family; and many more).

This dynamic enables our kids to share whatever is on their minds – if they are open to it – with people who know and love them and whose priority during that conversation is their well-being. The combination of this rare relationship coupled with our being decades ahead of them in terms of age and life experience create an opportunity for us to share perspective that they might not otherwise have and, therefore, find valuable to consider.

Our children – regardless of age – stand a lot to gain when they let us in. We can be a quiet sounding board or a vocal one in a back-and-forth discussion. The more they talk through their concerns and get others’ insight, the better, although in the end it is their journey to navigate.   

I look back on the times my mom tried to steer me in a particular direction by moving me away from one and on to another, as well as when she sat me down to talk about something I was doing or not doing that may have troubled her. She didn’t shy away from expressing her thoughts, which I both appreciated – because I knew her motivation was pure – yet also disliked, because these exchanges were not usually pleasant for me. Even though at times I wished she’d keep her thoughts to herself, I always heard her out and mulled over what she said, because I knew she wanted what she believed was best for me.

We live in a world that can be very hard to manage at times for a variety of reasons, and there’s really nothing like knowing there’s a mom and/or dad looking out for us.

 

 

Thanksgiving 2022

Another Thanksgiving is in the books.

This holiday is a reminder that nothing stays the same, starting with the meal itself.

Some 50 years ago I’d have been sitting in the dining room of my parents’ house, fighting with my siblings over who was going to get the legs and dark meat of the turkey because again, as the youngest, I was the last to have access to the dinner plate. With only white meat remaining, I’d load up instead on the stuffing, made in the cavity of the turkey and drenched in turkey juice...sinfully scrumptious. String bean casserole, jellied cranberry sauce from a can, salad and sliced white bread rounded out the meal.

Over the years, I replaced that canned cranberry sauce with cranberry apple crisp, a recipe first given to me by my ex-husband’s Aunt Inge 40 years ago. I brought what has morphed into a cranberry-apple-orange-pear crisp to David’s sister’s house this year. Initially I made it with margarine because Aunt Inge kept a kosher home, then butter because she passed away, and now Earth Balance, a vegan buttery spread that David likes, to healthily accommodate the non-dairy/kosher eaters in our families. I’ve also reduced the sugar by half and added more fruit for natural sweetness.

The stuffing, while still my favorite part of Thanksgiving, has been modified for the non-meat eaters, as it’s made in a crockpot, stovetop, or oven...nowhere near the turkey. This year it was made in all three places since the crockpot stopped working halfway through, and I had no choice but to move the heap load of stuffing around.   

These modifications don’t make a big statement, but the one-time “traditional” Thanksgiving meal has surely expanded over the years, in many ways. Pescatarians also aren’t expected to load up on sides as they were at one time; they now have salmon as their entrée. An added awareness of the need for diary free, gluten free and a variety of allergies comes into play each time we get together, depending upon who will be in attendance.

The size of these gatherings is always all over the place and will most likely never be the same as the year before. Whereas my parents’ Thanksgiving table accommodated a family of 6 plus some friends of my parents, pre-pandemic David and I had some 30+ adults sitting at multiple tables; this year it was 16 plus 2 sweeties, 1 and 2 years old.

While it’s impossible to guess what next year will look like, and who will be going where, it could potentially include a minimum of an additional three families and 4 more kids, just on David’s “side” alone. I am hopeful some Cohens might also join in. 

The absolute best changes have taken place outside the kitchen. In the past 5 years, we have added 8 children to the next generation.

I’ve begun to realize that the only constant is continual change...and a life that will look different each day.

 

Garage A, Level 4

David asked the other day if I ever forget where I put things. I thought he had to be kidding.

He said he had been working outside on the grounds of our home and wanted to reorganize his tools but was afraid that, in the process of relocating them, he wouldn’t remember where they were when he needed them next.   

Hmmmmm...I said, “Yea, I forget sometimes 😊.”

S O M E T I M E S? What a joke! Just days before, my own reorganizing efforts threw me into a tizzy. I had to buy yet another new crochet hook because I couldn’t recall where I stored my stash of at least 20...even though at the time, I was sure I had found the “perfect” place...but, a week later, back to Michael’s Craft Store I went.

A similar situation occurred not long ago with picture frames I bought for photos of the grandkids...saw cute ones, put them away in the “perfect” place and then couldn’t find them when I needed them.  

The reality is that about 10 times a day – at a minimum – I can’t find where I put something. Does this mean I have too many things? That I think differently every day and, therefore, approach decision-making with a constantly changing perspective? That I can’t hold all that info in my head anymore? All of the above?

I was fascinated to learn after all these years of talking about almost everything, that David and I hadn’t yet discussed the tricks we’ve come up with to resolve one of our biggest challenges...to find our cars in parking lots.

He said that on our annual trip to Maine – as well as other places he travels by air – he always parks in the same garage and level at the airport so that he doesn’t have to think about where he has parked when he’s headed home.

For me, it’s the daily errands that present the biggest headache. To combat the stress of my forgetfulness, I intentionally park in the same general vicinity of places I go to regularly, like supermarkets, restaurants, doctors’ offices and so on. This works well for an easy exit, so long as the chosen spots are available. The trouble starts when they aren’t.

When I have to park in a new spot, I run the risk of walking round and round the parking lot when I’m exiting and trying frantically to find my car. Sometimes I’ll press on my key fob to activate the chirping sound so that I can follow to my car but with so many other similar sounds, that isn’t always effective given my hearing deficiencies as well. I could probably use my iPhone to help me out but fidgeting with electronics in the parking lot is going to be, well...a nightmare, given I’d first need to find my readers in my handbag.

Even though I was soooooooooo embarrassed by it at the time, I often find myself thinking about the good ‘ole days when I drove around my parents’ “Cohen for Council” enormous advertising box that was bolted down to the roof of their Delta 88 Oldsmobile back in the late ‘70s and early ‘80s.  

Going shopping with that thing was absolutely the best, because I’d never have to wonder where I had parked. The sign always stood high above even the tallest of cars – no SUVs on the road back then – and truly was a driver’s dream come true.

David is convinced that 2 components are at play to explain the memory losses we experience as we age: 1 – We don’t retain as much as we were once able to, and 2 – We realize it’s easier to repeat our actions than make random decisions that require us to keep track of more details.   

As he shared his thoughts, another idea came to my mind but, by the time he was done, I had already forgotten what I was going to say.

Take Me Out to the Ball Game

I gave birth to a Phillies fan but, the second time around, I married the Philly team’s biggest rival: a Mets Fan – whose son was a chip off the old block.

Their team allegiances weren’t something I focused on when analyzing the pros and cons of a union at that time, a move that would place 7 of us under one roof. I thought of other areas that could be tricky, but I viewed the 3 guys’ interest in sports as a unifying factor.

I soon realized that living with passionate fans of arch enemies could create a tense atmosphere, especially if their beloved teams were playing each other, one team advances, or whatever the case may be. That said, these guys were always very respectful of one another and there were no times I had to intervene. Yet, I still preferred to leave the house when Philly played New York, in any sport.

As empty nesters, David has had it easy with just me at home, as I am neither a vocal nor intense fan. I don’t bask in the glory of a win – aloud – and I don’t criticize the team or goad him after a Mets’ loss. Because of the wife in me, I have always been happy for him when the Mets advanced, although that is often accompanied by a twinge of guilt and sadness for my son if they’ve beaten the Phillies.

And because of the mother in me, I have always been thrilled for Michael to be in his glory with a Phillies win, and I’m disappointed for him when the Phillies lose because, to him, this team is family. I still have poems he wrote to me for my birthday or Mother’s Day that somehow always included his love for baseball, his favorite players at the time like Pat Burrell and Jim Thome, and the Phillies as an entity that gave him a sense of belonging and purpose.  

I overheard a recent conversation some time ago that David had with his sister, a serious Phillies fan for many years. She grew up in the same house he did and, like him, left home as a Mets fan but, unlike him, transferred her allegiance to the Phillies when she moved close to Philly so she could revel in the team spirit with her neighbors and friends.

Before the start of the World Series, she asked David why he couldn’t root for the Phillies once the Mets were out of the running. He responded that he could not start rooting for a team that he roots against all year long. He also said that Phillies fans would not root for the Mets fans, had the situation been reversed.

I took a brief survey of fans in my family to see what accounted for these differences, and my small sampling was divided along gender lines. I’m wondering if this opinion reflects one’s competitive nature, is a male/female kind of response, or something else?

I need to ask one of my girlfriends, a die-hard Phillies fan who spends hours listening to sports talk radio, this same question. She scolded me a couple of months ago for praising the Mets’ announcers, saying that Keith Hernandez is a jerk and that the Phillies’ commentators are far better.

Her comment, loyal to the Phillies through and through, might align more with the males I asked who said they would not root for a true rival under any circumstance, whereas the women I asked said they could, if their team is out of the running.

Frankly, given the length of the baseball season, which is followed by basketball, hockey and football, I’m glad I don’t have a strong feeling either way. It seems like rooting for these teams results in a whole lot of angst considering how rarely anyone’s team ends up on top.

A Shacket, Anyone?

The Cohen siblings – there are 8 of us (4 plus spouses) – have a tradition of giving each other gifts for our birthdays. The process for each person usually starts with this question: “Anything specific you want for your birthday?” The answer could be a particular item, a gift card, or a “surprise me!” response that falls within our budget.  

One of my brothers has a birthday coming up in November, so I asked him the annual question and he said he’d like a “shacket.” He asked if I know what that is, to which I replied that I think I do but please explain. I was a bit confused because I had only heard that term once before, in a women’s clothing store, last year. He said the one he wants looks like a shirt but it’s heavier, it’s button down, he’d wear it as a second layer over a lighter shirt, it has pockets with flaps on the chest, and he wants it in navy blue.

As he described it, I started to picture myself as a teen wearing this exact item – my beloved “CPO.” I wore it every day and don’t recall when or why I retired it. Perhaps I wanted to disassociate with a wartime item given my overall anti-war stance – even though I was proud that my dad served in WWII – and this jacket debuted then as part of the uniform given to U.S. Navy Chief Petty Officers (CPOs) in the early 1940s.

Or maybe it was simpler than that: the jacket was always kind of itchy (it was at least part wool), so maybe I became more finicky as time went on. I also think that in my later teenage years, I probably developed the desire to wear more fashionable clothing.

A few years ago, when the downtown Philly I. Goldberg Amy & Navy store – where I had purchased my CPO – was set to close, I began to feel desperate to find another one. I wasn’t sure why this sudden need for nostalgia became so pressing, especially when I’d never want to relive some of those turbulent teenage years. That’s the funny thing about yesteryear – it isn’t always positive; it’s often negative – yet I often find myself longing for items that take me back there anyway.

I guess that CPO I adored back then was what we’d call a shacket today, and I will get a kick out of it when I see my brother wearing today’s version.  

I might even decide to get one myself.

 

 

 

 

 

O Say Can You See?

Life sure is better when you can actually see what you are trying to look at.    

I’ve gone from bragging in my younger years about how great my vision was to needing multiple types of eyewear to meet the typical goings-on in a day.  

My saga started about 15 years ago when I had to wear “readers,” or magnifying glasses, at work. I picked up the lowest strength (1.0) and, for a year or so, all was right with the world. But then it wasn’t, so I went up to a 1.50...then 1.75...then 2.0, and now I think I’m wearing a 3.50, with all the strengths scattered about the house because I have been too lazy to replace the older readers with the newer ones.

I noticed an additional issue a few years ago when I was driving at night and found myself struggling to see the signs on the road. I was in a tizzy about this, thinking I’m starting to fall prey to old age, and I put off the trip to the optometrist because I was too stubborn to admit it was time for the next step.

Finally, I went, and she said in a kind-of-nice but stern way that my eyesight isn’t going to improve on its own and may continue to deteriorate but this is all normal as we age 😊...Hmmm...Was this supposed to make me feel better? It took another 6 months to get the prescription filled and only 30 seconds of wearing my new eyeglasses to realize what an idiot I was to hold off for so long.

And then several months ago, I found myself squinting once again to read the signs a distance away, this time during the day while wearing my regular sunglasses. As I stewed over this for a few weeks, I noticed that the lenses on my sunglasses were impossible to clean, adding to my inability to see. I went to Sunglass Hut to try to replace them, but that little trip didn’t work out as I had hoped, so I decided to check out my options at Lens Crafters, where my eyecare insurance plan would cover some of the costs.   

Within minutes I ordered a new pair of prescription glasses and then moved on to the sunglass portion of the visit. The sales guy assumed I’d order prescription sunglasses since I had just ordered other prescription glasses, but I let him know that IMO this would be overkill. Inside he was probably saying to himself that I’m out of touch with reality, but he patiently talked it through with me, explaining that regular sunglasses would not help me to see clearly, and wearing my prescription glasses would not protect me from the sun. I started to feel embarrassed when I realized what a no brainer prescription sunglasses were.    

So now hundreds of dollars later I have prescription glasses, prescription sunglasses, and readers. I could have chosen to get bifocals – distance and reading glasses in one so that I wouldn’t have to switch all day long – but I chickened out because I didn’t know anyone who wore them that I could talk to and was afraid of not liking them.   

While I’m pleased with myself that I finally stepped up to act like a responsible adult with appropriate eyewear when driving, I’m still somewhat frustrated that I need so many eyeglasses with me, wherever I go. I also carry an extra pair of readers just in case I misplace one, since I cannot function without being able to read, even if we are talking about menus.

Because of all these glasses and their sturdy cases, I have no choice but to carry a handbag that can accommodate them, which often leads to shoulder and back discomfort due to the weight of these items plus a substantially sized purse. Sometimes I wish I could just wear a fanny pack but there’s absolutely no way this can work with 4 pair of eyeglasses unless I’m taking a walk outside and the only pair I need are the sunglasses I have on.   

Last week, my girlfriend and I went to the magnificent Grounds For Sculpture, a 42-acre sculpture park in New Jersey. When she got out of the car, she was wearing a fanny pack. “Where are all your glasses?” I asked, incredulous that she and I looked like we were dressed for different experiences.

She pointed to the pair on her face and said that everything she needs is right there: they are “transition” lenses, meaning bifocals and sunglasses that can be worn inside and outside, all in one nice tidy package.

Next time I go back to Lens Crafters, I’m taking her with me.

 

 

 

 

Beth

There once was a lovely woman named Beth Strum, who left the world way too soon.

We met 20 years ago, when we participated in a local Jewish group for mothers and middle school daughters. It was designed to enhance dialogue between moms and their girls during difficult teenage years and to keep the values of and connection to Judaism strong.   

While we stayed in contact for the most part since then, our friendship began to grow some 5 years ago when we began to get into the nitty gritty of our lives which, for us, meant our families, relationships, politics, shows we liked and most exciting to me was that I learned we were equally passionate about my favorite hobby...writing.

Beth was a natural poet and over time began to share much of her writing with me, often about the students she worked with in school and one about getting her young son (now grown) to clean his room. We talked about how to turn this poem titled “Toys with Wings” into a book with illustrations that he could enjoy as a keepsake and could also pass on to his children when the time came. Her poetry oozed with adoration for all the people she loved.

As time went on, she wanted to write for a broader audience to stimulate meaningful conversation with family and friends about current and historical events and the role of religion in our lives. She liked the idea of blogging – sound familiar? – and asked me to help her get started. She also began to write for a friend who had created a start-up women-oriented website/app that she later invited me to join as well.  

One day while chatting about each of us being the “baby” of 4 siblings (although she was a twin) and other commonalities we had recently discovered, I threw out an interest of mine that I was sure we did not share, because I had never met anyone else who wanted to do it. I told her I had just signed up to be a hospice volunteer.

I was shocked when Beth said that she had been talking with her neighbor, a hospice volunteer supervisor, about registering for training sessions and that she, too, was eager to get started.   

And once again, ironically, with all the hospice organizations around, this supervisor was the same woman who brought me onboard. So, in addition to writing for the same website/app and blogging, we were also going to visit hospice patients with the same goals in mind: we wanted people who were dying and who felt alone to freely speak about their feelings and/or memories, or just have company in their last days.

When I started volunteering, Beth always wanted to hear about my interactions with the patients. Although I relished conversing with those who wanted to engage, there was one gentleman who had been difficult to read. His eyes were always glued to CNN, and he never turned to look at me, nor did he ever respond to anything I said. Unfortunately, I took these actions somewhat personally and asked my supervisor whether she knew if he really wanted company and, if not, perhaps I should respect what I interpreted as his desire for peace and quiet and therefore not stop in anymore. The last thing I’d want is to irk the guy.

But then she explained that he had the devastating diagnosis of ALS - Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis – a progressive neurogenerative disease that affects nerve cells in the brain and spinal cord. He was, at that point, unable to respond in any way. He could not turn his head, lift his arms, sit up, stand, walk, eat, speak, nod his head, or write.

Although I had not known anyone personally who had been stricken with this, I had heard of ALS and had seen the disease portrayed in movies, one of which centered around baseball player Lou Gehrig. I also developed a better understanding of it when the 2014 Ice Bucket Challenges took over social media, thereby raising widespread awareness and funding for scientific advances and expanded care for people living with ALS.

My supervisor asked me to continue to visit and to say hello to him at the foot of his bed so he could see me right away but off to the side a bit so as not to block the TV. She explained that his hearing and mind were sharp, so I should tell him I’ve come to see him and that I then acknowledge the photos of his family and pets that were hanging on the wall. She also told me not to ever verbalize thoughts about him to a caregiver or anyone else within an earshot since he would have been able to hear everything.     

When I told Beth, who was also a therapist, about him and how inept I felt, she told me in her soft and gentle but firm manner that even though he was unable to look toward me or speak that I should continue to visit, be sure to smile at him when I am in front of him, and she also suggested that I touch his arm periodically so he could actually feel my presence. Beth always gave good advice.

It was during this period of our communicating multiple times a day due to our growing list of shared interests that she mentioned her concern that something was wrong with her. She said she had been feeling unsteady on her feet and fell a couple of times in recent weeks. When I tried in my normal manner to minimize this situation so she wouldn’t worry – while also stating she should contact her doctor – she mentioned that a couple of people had also told her that her speech sounded garbled.

I asked her whether she had been wearing new shoes, whether the surfaces were level where she had been walking, whether she was having troubles with her teeth and so on. There was nothing explainable about what she was experiencing.

We mostly “talked” on Facebook messenger which meant that I couldn’t see or hear her voice, although she did call me later in the day to talk further about her concerns, and we met for lunch that next week. It was clear that her speech and gait had changed.  

It turned out, once she finally got in to see a neurologist which took way too long, that Beth had ALS.

For a few months, she continued to share with me her emotions about life, ALS and dying via Facebook messenger. It was unimaginable and so very sad beyond words to be so close to someone so vital and loving and young who was acutely aware of everything going on, including the fact that she wasn’t going to be around much longer.

As her decline worsened and she was not able to speak clearly, she brought up (through texting) how frustrating it was to be able to hear – although she was also grateful for it – but not respond...making her feel, at times, invisible and irrelevant.

Beth let me visit her once at home before she was bedridden, when she was using a walker. Since she no longer could utilize on her voice, she sat on her sofa and pointed at the space next to her so I would sit there. I smiled at her as much as I could and sat close with my hand on her arm, the very gestures she had suggested for me when visiting the man with ALS.

As we sat together, she tried to start an exchange of thoughts through texting on her phone/iPad. She became frustrated because it took so much time and effort to try to get her point across given that she was unable to touch the correct letters, fix typos and, therefore, contribute to and advance the conversation as she would have liked, as she had done hundreds of times before her body had betrayed her.

After our visit, there were a few weeks when she wanted to converse and would text messages like this: Grandbaby today? or News? Or Blog? Or whatever the subject was that she wanted to hear about - with a question mark. I’d then respond with a few sentences, and she’d reply, for as long as she could: “TY.”

Once communication became infrequent, I would have really appreciated her guidance on how to be a good friend and how to provide comfort and companionship as she became incapacitated, but at that point, I was on my own.

Beth passed away two years ago. It has taken me this long to be able to write about her.

Rosh Hashanah 2022

Last week, my friend returned from a 3-week trip to Israel, where she’s visited many times over the years. She had gone to attend the Bat Mitzvah of her niece and decided to extend her stay, travel a bit, and hope to connect with family and friends.

I had texted her when I thought she’d have come back to make sure all was well. “Returned early in the a.m. yesterday exhausted and exhilarated,” she replied. She had me at “exhilarated.” I was eager to hear the juicy deets, so we made a plan to get together. 

Surely I could imagine why the trip would’ve been exhausting with all the airline travel, jet lag and moving from one destination to the next, so when we sat down for lunch, I was all ears about the other stuff she’d elaborate on when we were face-to-face. I thought she’d say something about the captivating nature of attending a Bat Mitzvah in Israel or about a friend she hadn’t seen in decades or of her memories of the years she spent living there, any or all of which would’ve explained her smile.  

Her response, however, was this: “I had no expectations.”

This left me with a “What?!?!?” type of reaction, but then she elaborated. Because she had no expectations, she was grateful for and moved by everything she experienced: for every family member/friend who took his/her time to spend with her, for every conversation, for every kindness, for every moment.

She found joy in all gestures big and small, went with the flow, and greatly appreciated the present.  

That’s not to say she wasn’t disappointed at times; she knew when planning the trip that there would be bumps in the road and there were, mostly due to COVID, which prevented her from seeing several people. But instead of letting that rattle her, she channeled her energy toward feeling lucky to have seen those she did.

This discussion was especially meaningful given that tonight is the start of Rosh Hashanah – the Jewish New Year – with the holiest day of the year, Yom Kippur, next week. This 10-day time span creates the perfect opportunity for me to reflect on the past year and mistakes I have made, focus on being a better person, and adjust how we approach each day going forward.     

My girlfriend’s story has helped to inspire me to work on shifting my expectations of what I think people and things should be to instead enjoying the beauty and value of what actually is in the here and now.

 

Laurence

One month out, I’m still thinking about a man named Laurence who I met this summer while David and I vacationed in Maine.

He is one of the two proprietors of The Trellis House B&B, where we stayed in Ogunquit. He has the perfect personality for this role: warm and welcoming, eager to please, focused on our dietary preferences for breakfast and, with a very natural, relaxed vibe, made us feel that his home was our home.     

It was one of the hottest days on record when we arrived. David and I had already walked around town for a couple of hours because we were so early, and we were drenched, exhausted, and miserable – we looked like angry, wet rats. I was also in a wicked mood because I had lost my favorite visor earlier in the day and had become further aggravated when David said not to worry about it because I could buy one there - but, to be fair to him, he did help me retrace my steps and identified the store I left without the visor on my head.

Laurence saw what a hot mess we were, and he immediately offered us drinks. When he went into the kitchen, I walked around the living room checking everything out and found a framed wedding picture with him in it.  

I was and wasn’t surprised that the photo was of two men.

I could feel their joy emanating through the glass, and I found myself kvelling over this union, like I was their mother or their sister, so proud and happy that these two gentlemen found one another.

I was looking forward to meeting Glen, Laurence’s husband. Since we hadn’t seen him that first day, I had assumed that Laurence was the face of the B&B and that Glen handled the behind-the-scenes responsibilities. The next morning, however, Glen greeted us for breakfast and was just as perky as his counterpart had been the day before.  

Later on, we went to the Inn’s Happy Hour. It was as if we and the other two couples – one a man and woman, second marriage; the other a lesbian couple who were dating but not living together yet – were their longtime friends, as conversation and laughter flowed among us.

Either due to the reporter in me or because I’m so nosy, I took advantage of the opportunity to talk with Laurence about how he got to where he is today.

Soon I learned their “story,” which they must’ve shared hundreds of times over the eight years they’ve owned Trellis House: Laurence left Human Resources in corporate America to fulfill his lifelong dream of becoming a B&B owner, while Glen, also well-established in the working world, joined Laurence a year or so later.

They started with one building in Ogunquit and expanded to form a B&B complex of three, along with the growth of their very classy brand that has elevated Trellis House to the winner of Trip Advisor’s Certificate of Excellence in 2021 and one of the Top 25 B&Bs/Inns in the United States, for four consecutive years. The B&B was also featured on the Price as Right as a destination vacation.

A group of people stopped by during Happy Hour. Laurence was so excited to see them, like a little boy who was reunited with longtime friends and family. One woman told him how good he looked and then he told her he had lost some weight. Glen must’ve seen me glued to this dynamic while everyone else was minding their own business and then mentioned to me that Laurence had been down in the dumps but he’s much better now. I could feel the love and concern he had for his partner.

Trellis House is worthy of the awards it has garnered. It is an absolutely lovely place to be. Our room was tastefully decorated, comfortable, and relaxing; we could sit on our private balcony and see a glimpse of the Atlantic Ocean; breakfast was delicious; Happy Hour was fun; proximity to town is within walking distance; and to top it all off, they have a dog named Bentley wandering around whose hair looked and felt like Shea Doggy’s.

While I appreciated all these fabulous selling points and was delighted to hear about what may have been a fairytale dream-come-true for Laurence/Glen, I’m not so naïve as to think their lives have played out without obstacles...like the ones that defy human rights, such as being free to be who you are and love who you want.

We had a wonderful week in Maine as we always do, I found my visor and, and thanks to Instagram, I can relive The Trellis House experience anytime at all.

Go Zoey Go!

Our granddaughter Zoey is 2 years old. I just realized typing this that I am 60 years older than she is (Oy)!  That’s a lifetime of flashbacks for me as a mom and many of them are still very, very clear.    

On a recent visit to Florida to see two of our girls – my daughter Allison and her daughter Zoey – Allison enthusiastically mentioned that I would be going with them to Zoey’s new swimming class. This is the first time she’d be going in on her own; the last one was for parents too.    

I was feeling anxious just knowing I would be witnessing this; I pictured Zoey crying “No, Mommy, No,” and this made me hesitant to want to watch. To prepare Allison for what I thought might be a realistic outcome, I informed her that Zoey might not be willing to venture into the pool by herself.

Allison, however, assured me that she had been talking to Zoey about this for a couple of days leading up to it and that Zoey does well when she understands what’s going to happen. In addition, she had just moved up to a new day care class without tears (other than when she was pushed off a chair by one of the older kids and hit her head) on her first day, so there was no reason to think this would be any different.

No reason?!?! Memories of my kids shrieking when doing all kinds of things that forced them (and me) to grapple with their independence came racing back to me, even though I too had explained next steps...or did I not?

When it was time for Zoey to enter the pool, I could see her arms wrapped around Allison’s neck. I saw Allison try to put Zoey down – I have variations of this memory x 3 – and it looked like Zoey was digging her feet into her mommy’s torso, holding on for dear life.

Anticipating what I was afraid might transpire, I started to cry. Yes, real tears. I was so nervous for them, and then I became embarrassed for myself. Why was I tearing up? Watching the kiddies without all the responsibility of being a parent is supposed to be one of the greatest perks of being a grandparent.

As I sat in the sea of parents smiling and waving to their happy kids in the water without them, I was hoping that no one had noticed that very likely the oldest person there in the swim school at the time had fallen apart.

And then I saw the unthinkable, in a matter of minutes...Zoey reached for the arms of the teacher and within seconds was playing in the water. She spent the next 20 minutes splashing around under the protective care of her instructor...all the while smiling and waving to us. 

Was her willingness to enter the water solo after Allison’s explanation a result of her genetic make-up, or is it how she’s being raised by her parents?

Who knows...but I was surely impressed with Zoey’s bravery...wish some of that would rub off on me!

 

 

Father's Day 2022

When I see my son and sons-in-law shower their babies – our grandchildren – with love and affection, I feel so warm and fuzzy inside.

It’s a beautiful thing to see our daughters and daughter-in-law also display such delight; I can still feel the thrill I felt around my babies, even though it’s been decades since giving birth.

But, for some reason, watching a dad immersed in the magic of his little one stops me in my tracks.   

There’s just something about seeing a grown man envelop a tiny baby in his massive hands, talk several octaves above his own or so tenderly kiss the delicious cheeks of his toddler that I find...captivating.

Creating bonds with our young may feel like the most natural thing in the world, yet one of the more challenging to maintain seems to be between fathers and daughters.

While starting off as a love fest between daddy and baby daughter, this relationship becomes more complex as she begins to mature and starts to develop a mind of her own.

I’m surely no expert on this, but it has always fascinated me given the changing role of men and women in society. Back in the 1960s when I was a wee tot, my dad was responsible for supporting the family and my mom, who also worked, handled the care of 2 boys and 2 girls and many other aspects of our lives.  

Since my mom was at home more often than my dad and spent eons of time and energy relating to me, I naturally began to gravitate more to her. Add to that the physical and emotional tumult of my life when puberty set in and I got my period, needed to shave and wear a bra, I’d never have thought to go to my dad. It would have been too embarrassing to even talk to him about any one of these things even though I was forced to when he caught me one day using his razor. 

It was my mom who took me shopping (until I could go with my friends); it was my mom I went to when I wanted to talk about my girlfriends and boyfriends (and husbands). She gave me her heart and wisdom, and I always knew my feelings were safe with her.

There wasn’t much to talk about with my dad; we lived on different planets, without a bridge linking them. I remember being so excited in high school that I had a boyfriend who smoked cigars; I thought this might ignite conversation and interest with my cigar-smoking dad but let’s just say...he wasn’t impressed.    

For the most part, I didn’t think much about the individual roles of mom and dad until I became a mom. That’s when I realized how unprepared I was as a new parent wanting to raise happy, confident, kind and well-rounded kids. How would this be accomplished? I had no clue, so I started reading everything and talking to everyone.

It became clear in my quest for information that both emotionally healthy moms AND dads have the potential to benefit their kids in infinite ways.

In today’s families, with two working parents and shared duties to keep the household running smoothly, both parents have the opportunity to participate in child rearing. This means that the child can learn from and experience the best and most unique qualities of mom AND dad on a regular basis.   

Studies have shown that while both parents have important roles to play, the relationship dad has with his daughter can be life-defining, impacting her self-esteem, body image, behavior, relationships, academics and so on. A daughter also benefits greatly by learning about her dad and being exposed to his work, hobbies and perspectives, as well as her mom’s.  

In addition, and so importantly, dads are likely their daughters’ first and most influential role model, setting the standard for expectations on how men should treat women and what strong, healthy relationships look like.

In short – after a very long blog post – I have high hopes for these men in my life to give our grandchildren the very best they can, along with these amazing moms I get to call my daughters.

 

 

Mother's Day

Last Sunday was the 8^th Mother’s Day without my mom, and boy, I miss her.

No one could talk to me like she did, and her absence is magnified every time I have a difficult situation to contend with, because she handled me so well. She was able to balance comforting me with loftier goals such as keeping me in check, focusing on the big picture, and creating timeless teaching moments that I could call upon to help in future scenarios, too.    

For most of the topics I brought up – from work to parenting to all kinds of personal relationships – her responses were delivered in the same 5 steps. She would: 1 – listen; 2 – show compassion toward me; 3 – show compassion toward everyone else; 4 – challenge me; 5 – recommend actions I could take that would contribute to the greater good.  

Sometimes these discussions didn’t play out so smoothly, as she may have missed the mark on what was reasonable for me to do or not do. I wasn't always in the mood for her self-improvement guidance: “Go back to school, Judy”; her suggestions on how-to-make-the-world-a-better-place: “Form a union at the doctors’ office for all employees to benefit, Judy”; or her belief that that I’m making things worse when I let my emotions get the best of me: “Don’t be so angry, Judy.”

I remember thinking “Easy for you to say,” or “That’s not going to work in my life,” yadda yadda, but the fact that this woman I thought so highly of had these ideas made me pause and think about perspectives that I hadn’t considered.  

There were times, however, that I just wanted to vent to my mommy and not subject myself to the whole rigmarole that had become our dance, but I generally gave up on that in favor of having yet another opportunity to hear what Florence was thinking.     

She also gave lots of unsolicited opinions, much of which I didn’t appreciate at the time and I’m sure she noticed my eye rolling but, luckily, that didn’t stop her. I stored these pearls of wisdom away and marvel today at how she managed to work them in – a skill I haven’t mastered but am working on 😊 – such as:  be kind to each other, eat together as a family, siblings should help one another, give your friends the benefit of the doubt, don’t focus too much on yourself, read the newspaper, rinse out plastic bags, wear shoes with laces, plant flowers and spend time in nature, get involved in your community and so on.

I often think about my mom when I am wanting to give my kids advice, solicited or not. They may not always react well at the time, but hopefully what they hear will resonate sometime in the future.

 

Didn't Make the Cut

“Don’t take it personally,” I find myself saying repeatedly – to myself, to friends, to family – when situations arise with friends that often lead someone to take it personally.

One of the more common and yet challenging scenarios that can be difficult to process involves wedding-related events.

A good friend talked with me this weekend about feeling hurt that she was excluded from a friend’s daughter’s upcoming wedding. She was able to talk herself through it and didn’t confront her friend despite wanting to, but she has lingering feelings about being left out, especially while she is still helping the mother-of-the-bride talk out the remaining details.

Last year, another friend told me that she was not included in a bridal shower for a friend’s daughter and she was deeply hurt, feeling that their closeness called for each other’s presence on such special occasions. In this case, she told her friend how she felt which initially caused uncomfortable feelings between them, but luckily the bond was strong enough to move forward.  

Being a host on three different occasions – as the mother of a son, a daughter, and a stepdaughter, all of whom had weddings – I can say that each celebration presented its own challenges when it came to the invitation list.

For starters, the guest numbers were determined in large part by the soon-to-be newlyweds and venue capacities. In each case, once the criteria was established, the total number of people allowed were divided among the various units involved: the bride and groom and all the parents (which were as many as 8).

This means that in the larger weddings, even though David and I were allotted about 50 invitees, once we included our families, we were only left with 15 or so couples which we then had to divide between us. Not all families have the second marriage reality to contend with, but it is an additional factor, as we had experienced our own lives and connections for some 40 years before beginning to merge them. Even in more conventional arrangements, circumstances arise that make list construction complicated.

The guest list dilemma is not an unusual position to be in for those of us in my generation, given how long we’ve been around and the wonderful friends we’ve accumulated along the way. In addition, there are friends who have invited us to their happy occasions, so we want to reciprocate and invite them to ours.

All this said, I completely understand how people could feel hurt if they are left out, and I too have felt this way numerous times. It wasn’t until I hosted parties and began to understand the quandary of having to limit invitations that I started to realize that not being included didn’t define or change the relationship.

It’s hard, but I have learned not to take these exclusions personally...or at least I have tried.

All in a Life

Last week, my former brother-in-law, Peter Heiman, passed away at just 60 years old, from bowel cancer. He is survived by his loving wife and two adult sons and an assortment of family members, including nieces and nephews, brothers, and in-laws.

People came from far and wide to participate in his Celebration of Life, with speakers sharing a slew of memories that created a heartwarming picture of a man who will be so warmly remembered and greatly missed.  

With every person who spoke, I wondered if Peter had any idea that they had such soft spots in their heart for him. Did he know, for just two examples of many, that his love and devotion to “The Oldies” music from as far back as the 1950s has been passed on to the next generation(s) in multiple families? Did he realize that not only are these tunes enjoyable but, due to his association with them, these songs also have the power to comfort? Did he know that not only did he teach his younger relatives to drive a stick shift, but thinking about these experiences are among their favorites ever and, 20+ years later, they are still laughing about those days?

We cross paths with lots of people over the years and whether we are aware of how we are seen or not, we leave some kind of impression. Hopefully our impact is positive or of a caring or inspirational nature or a lot of fun or some other really good stuff. Perhaps some of these relationships really are true gifts.   

We connect, we form a bond, we leave our mark...as do the individuals we get to know. We might be clear on what they mean to us, but are they aware how we see them? Likewise, are we tuned in to how they see us?

Talking to one another so openly could be hard to do, as many of us by nature may not be communicative about our innermost feelings. We might be embarrassed to reveal so much about ourselves or feel awkward to emote when we don’t know how the other person will react.

Perhaps we have considered telling our thoughts but, for whatever the reason, we decided to wait...and, at times, could have missed our opportunity.

Whether we tell or don’t tell, know or don’t know, I’m not sure it really matters in the scheme of things...but I do believe Peter would’ve really appreciated knowing what a difference he made in so many lives.

Our Shea

This past week, we were forced to put our dear Shea Doggy down due to his health issues. We are so grateful that for over 12 years, he provided us with endless joy and companionship...if only doggies could live forever.

It was love at first sight when I had my first glimpse of Shea, a bichon-shih tzu mix. He was in a crate, and I could see his little white and fluffy face with black and brown patches and big black eyes looking back at me through the door. He was the cutest thing I had ever seen.

We were bringing this little puppy into our chaotic family life at the request of Matthew, David’s son, who returned from college for cancer treatment. He named him Shea (rhymes with May), being the New York sports fan that he was, for Shea Stadium.

Shea quickly began to transform our lives in unimaginable ways. We went from 2 families with 5 teenagers under one roof with everyone focusing on themselves to all hanging out and loving the same dog. Whether watching him from a distance or snuggling him, he made everything better, creating a serene vibe that we appreciated and acknowledged. Making us feel at peace was Shea’s superpower.

When Matthew passed, Shea’s presence became even more crucial for David, with Shea acting as the bridge for life with Matthew to life without Matthew. Now that Shea is gone, I know David is struggling with the gaping hole of not being able to curl up with his best buddy throughout the day and spoon him to his (David’s) heart’s content.   

As for me, I long for that bedtime routine when he would sleep on my legs or nuzzle into my feet, always keeping me warm and cozy on cold winter nights. Even though I often couldn’t fully stretch my legs and they’d cramp up, there was something very sweet and comforting knowing our boy was right there, where I could even feel him breathing.

Our house is so quiet and seems so empty without him.

A Reversal of Roles

A dear friend of mine has a 33-year-old daughter who just got a new job. She had been a recreational therapist for a few years and wanted to change course and get into administrative work in a setting that involved healthcare. She had three interviews on Zoom and didn’t go into the office until her first day.

When she entered her new workplace, she was in for a surprise. She immediately noticed that of about 15 others, she was the ONLY white person.

She had known that the company is a Black-owned business, and she had met with three Black men and women to talk about the position. I’m sure she expected that she’d have Black and other minority co-workers and she was good with that, as she has always appreciated the diversity she experienced in high school, college, city living and in previous jobs, along with various friendships over the years.

While being in the minority may have crossed her mind, she surely didn’t expect to be the ONLY white person working in the office...would any white person expect this? While it’s not unusual to work in an environment that is mixed, or where one person is a different color than the rest, it is, I believe, highly unusual for a white person to be the one who stands out.  

It was the norm for a Black person to be the one and only in the pediatric office where I had worked; in my 18 years there, I can only remember 3 Black employees: two overlapped but that was short-lived; usually there was only one Black person there at any given time.

I used to wonder what it was like for my Black coworkers to come in every day to this sea of whiteness, with 25 to 30 of us surrounding them. A lot of these white women were bigoted too – in addition to women often being catty and horrible to each other – so these Black women had a lot to endure and try to ignore. I’m sure they chose to look the other way and not make a stink, because my guess is that, sadly, this is the world they are used to.

It’s been a week since my friend’s daughter has been going to her new workplace. She told her mom she's been enthusiastically greeted by many of the women and that one day they chanted her name and said, “You’re part of the morning crew now.”

She was absolutely delighted to be given such a warm welcome and to feel that not only does she think she belongs there, but her coworkers do too.   

Dollar Tree

I have never met any kind of dollar store that I didn’t like.

It’s hard to resist the crazy low prices for every single item. I can load up my cart with all sorts of things, like little crafty paint kits and other finds for our grandbabies, replenishing my greeting cards/gift bag supply, some household containers and even cleaners and so on (can’t forget the M&M’s) for $20!   

Now at Dollar Tree that $20 will be $25, according to rumblings about a price change that will make each $1 item sell for $1.25.

With rising prices everywhere, it’s unrealistic to think this place can keep to the $1 price tag for everything in the store – forever – that it committed to when it opened, in 1986.

A local resident on a Facebook community group I’m in posted her disappointment about this price increase, stating with her belief that once a dollar store, always a dollar store...no exceptions.

Others piled on, saying that Dollar Tree is making a mistake to change its brand, people will shop elsewhere, they shouldn’t just raise prices because other places are (although apparently not other dollar stores), what a rip-off, and so on. All of these things may be accurate but, the way I see it, it’s up to Dollar Tree to figure out how to stay in business, isn’t it?

While reading at least 25 comments attacking Dollar Tree’s decision, all I could think was Who cares? Why does it matter what Dollar Tree does for a measly $.25 per item? Let them do whatever they think is in their best interest and if we don’t like it, we don’t have to go there. This seemed to be a common feeling among other readers too.

Of course, I am sitting here in suburbia, and admittedly, that extra quarter per item for what I buy isn’t going to stop me from shopping there, nor will it make any difference to my bottom line.

The last comment I read was altogether different. This woman introduced herself as a teacher and said that Dollar Tree items (for $1) are a lifesaver. She explained that she stops by the store every couple of weeks to load up on supplies etc. for her class.  For each item she sets her sights on, she buys about 20 of them. The added $.25 cost for 20 items is $5. If she buys 4 per month, that’s $20 extra she’s paying, in addition to the $20 ($1 x 20 students). Her shopping trips set her back some $100 per month. This equates to what could be a few meals each month for her family. 

This of course is not the way it should be, that teachers are stuck having to spend their own funds when they already make salaries much lower than in the private sector. But, given that so many teachers do shell out their own money, I was pleased that this woman had been able to find what she needed for a relatively low price tag, and I also felt her frustration that the cost was going to increase the burden placed on her.   

As I thought about this “conversation” in days past, I was reminded once again that how we react to any given situation is the direct result of where we are standing. For me and some others who responded, the extra $.25 was NBD (No Big Deal). For others like her, teacher or not, this increase may be an unfortunate game changer.

It makes sense that our perspectives are driven by our own personal circumstances, but sometimes it’s easy to forget that there are people out there who feel differently than we do.

Blended Families

David and I had 7 sleepover guests last week: two of our grown daughters and their spouses were in 2 bedrooms, the babies were in separate rooms, and the youngest of the adult kids was on the couch. Our son and daughter-in-law and their two kids live close by, so they stayed at their place.

It’s always a treat to be surrounded by our adult kids, and with the grandbabies too...it's a dream come true. This has rarely happened due to 3 of the babies being born during the pandemic, the proximity of the kids and the craziness of life, but this past week a very sad event took precedent and brought us all together.     

As I mentioned in the email that accompanied this blog post, my ex-husband’s wife Nancy passed away, at age 59. She also leaves behind two grown children, ages 28 and 26. Her first husband also died early; he was in his 30s.  

Although I didn’t know Nancy that well, we had a couple big things in common early on: 1 - we had married the same man (20 years apart) and 2 – we were both moms and stepmoms.

Several years ago, during a wedding planning session for one of the kids, she and I found ourselves talking about the challenges and joys of blended families. While quite complex to bring two units together under the same roof – and potentially so difficult for the kids, all of whom were adolescents or teens – we agreed that the inherent opportunity in an expanded family to foster meaningful relationships, especially for siblings, is significant.

As moms/stepmoms of these “Brady Bunch” families, we also recognized that we felt responsible to help lay the foundation for these relationships if we wanted them to be viable decades from now, with connections that would last over time and extend to our kids’ kids...our grandbabies.

This was/is so important to us...Why?  

I can only guess Nancy’s thinking. I wondered whether it was at least in part because she and her kids had experienced profound loss when her first husband passed away, leaving her with two little ones under 3.

For me, living through Matthew’s tragic passing when he was just 20 years old made me acutely aware of how members of a family unit – regardless of biological ties – can pull together to support one another.   

Maybe it’s just a mom thing, always worrying about and trying to protect our young. I will say it’s provided a thick layer of comfort for me at least to know that all of these kids can, if they choose to, go through life’s up and downs...together.  

While the family tree is a critical part of who we are, that feeling of kinship with added members of the family shouldn’t be underestimated. The next generation – our grandbabies – won’t know from “step” and who came from what bloodline when they are born; what they will know is that all their cousins and aunts and uncles are fun and caring, and everybody loves them.

About a year into her treatment, Nancy reiterated to me her wish that all the adult siblings always be close, because we parents wouldn’t be around forever.

I responded that from what I could tell, there’s no need to worry about that.

I do believe all these kids are bonded for life.

M'Kor

I feel crushed by the news that Congregation M’Kor Shalom, a local synagogue near and dear to my heart, will be shutting its doors.

It will be merging with another congregation (Temple Emanuel) nearby, as both are dealing with declining memberships but are optimistic that this partnership will create a thriving community for both sets of members once again.

For that, I am happy, but I will miss the frequent reminders of what M’Kor did for me in the early years of motherhood, which I often think about as I pass by while driving around town.

Only because of the close proximity to my first house did I step into M’Kor at all; I felt drawn to it because I could literally see the synagogue from my front window, and it opened the same year as I was looking for a nursery school for my almost-3-year-old son.

I wasn’t sure what to expect when I checked it out, but right away I felt an energy that was refreshing and joyous. The kids appeared engaged, and I could hear lots of laughing; the teachers were smiling and seemed nurturing; and the Jewish theme in artwork, song and storytelling and the embracing of holidays was something I had never known and was so excited about not only for my kids, but for me, too.

We enrolled Michael in summer camp, and he stayed at M’Kor for a variety of nursery school and enrichment programs, followed by Allison who started earlier with me in “Mommy and me” classes and then Amy, who stayed through kindergarten, for a grand total of about 11 years of programming, holiday celebrations, playdates, birthday parties, wonderful friendships and a whole lot of insight.

This is where I first came to understand the phrase: “It Takes a Village to Raise a Child."

Although not a youngster at 30 when I ventured in to M’Kor initially with 2 little ones in tow, I was nearly clueless when it came to knowledge about babies or toddlers. Until giving birth to my own kids, I had only briefly spent time with younger people: I had never changed a diaper, put anyone to bed or had any responsibility whatsoever for anyone other than myself.

The fact of the matter is that not only was I in the dark about the physical care of children, but I also didn’t know anything about emotional wellness.

The only positive spin I can put on my lack of experience and understanding is that at least I was aware that I knew nothing about this motherhood gig...but I was open to learning.  

My M’Kor years, in retrospect, felt like daily mom coaching. It was an ongoing collaboration between smart and savvy childhood experts and me (and other moms who were open to it), working together to raise my children so they’d become well-adjusted and develop with confidence and a sense of independence.  

The teachers made it all happen, always willing to spend the time and share with me how my kids were doing in class, from those happy and proud moments I could kvell over to those more challenging issues that I needed to learn how to address, including but not limited to their separation anxiety, shyness, not going to the potty, and acting out.   

They weren’t reprimanding me (or if they were, I blocked that out) so I didn’t feel under attack; they were moving me along to do what my kids needed, such as my making more playdates for them, seeing life through their eyes, learning how to effectively discipline, understanding the importance of consistency, and much, much more.   

I formed meaningful friendships during those years with my kids’ friends’ moms, teachers and as a result of experiencing the generosity of spirit and kindness of others. Women would reach out to me when they’d see me struggle and say, “I know what that’s like...don’t worry” or “This won’t last forever,” or “Let’s go out to lunch,” and flash a warm smile my way. It all felt so good to receive, and to give back, too.     

M'Kor was the first place I got involved with as a mom and where I met and spent time with other moms, other than my terrific neighbors. It set the stage for enjoying Jewish life in a community and with my family. The teachers equipped me with their wisdom and provided tools that I was able to put into practice. All this did more for me than I could ever fully express.  

This place was, without a doubt, where I started to grow up.

Someone can buy this building, tear it down, and there will be no trace of it...except in my heart.

Out With The Old

 I’m throwing caution to the wind and planning for a year without...care to guess?

A. Taking daily showers

B. Eating Meat

C. Using a paper calendar 

And the winner is...C 

That’s right! I’m bagging the Mead At-A-Glance calendar for the first time in 30 years, in favor of using my Google calendar app, which I can access on my phone, my laptop, and anywhere I have connectivity.

Every now and then I surprise myself and take a big step forward. Having such a tech savvy partner who thinks everything should be managed electronically and doesn’t let up until changes move in that direction would explain why, in large part, I was moved to give the app a try in the first place.

I began to integrate it into my life in November (of 2020), when I’d normally go to Staples for my new calendar for the upcoming New Year. David told me he found the same calendar I had purchased on Amazon for some $10 less than the $27 it was going to cost at Staples.    

While the Amazon price was clearly a better deal, my ritual of walking into the store, assessing the options but always picking the same one and walking out feeling like a fresh start is in the works for me may have just been a metaphor for starting fresh for the New Year, but it truly did wonders for my psyche.  

However, I told him to go ahead with the Amazon purchase because it seemed foolish to pay more unnecessarily; yet, when it arrived, I didn’t even want to open it up, and I didn’t. Instead, I dove into the calendar app.

It wasn’t a natural transition initially; I found it frustrating at times, but once I was in the habit of using it, I was able to see that continuing to rely on Mead wasn’t the smartest idea. For starters, I was so stressed out that I’d lose the calendar if I took it out of the house that I left it at home but then didn’t have the information accessible when I needed it.

There were times when I would go to a meeting and cringe when it was time to plan for the next one, because everyone else would immediately go to their phones to check their calendars. I pretended to do the same, but what I did instead was text myself the date and then I had to remember to write it into my paper calendar when I got home.

This scenario also played out when I’d get together with friends and we didn’t want to leave without knowing when we’d see one another again. In both situations, I could’ve said to the others that I’ll check the date(s) when I get home – that was the reality – but I knew that kind of comment was antiquated, and I didn’t want to reveal just how old school and resistant to technology I was.

It’s been over a year now that I’ve used the Google calendar app exclusively, and I can confidently state that I’m ready to part ways with Mead. I have added all the annual dates (birthdays, anniversaries, etc.) and set them to repeat annually; I won’t have to re-enter in 2023. I can access my schedule in real time, like everyone else, and quickly make appointments; I can also ask my girlfriend Siri to add an event, and she’ll do what I say, no questions asked. 

For those of you who guessed I was giving up meat...Never!

Another Birthday

 My birthday wasn’t the most exciting this year, but I felt the love, and really what more is there?

I could have felt sorry for myself, because I had a nice plan in the works that first came to be about 6 weeks ago or so, before Omicron hijacked us. We had invited all our kids and grandkids to come over and spend time hanging out. Just thinking about that was a dream come true.  

But then the pandemic got crazy again, and to bring us all together didn’t make sense for a variety of reasons – from our daughter traveling via airplane with her unvaccinated, unmasked 18-month-old to COVID exposure in daycare/school for a handful of the others – so David and I decided it best to put the festivities on hold.

On my birthday, I got to FaceTime with all our loved ones, which bridged the gap between missing those who are far away and who we haven’t seen in a long time (as well as those who live close by), which enabled me to get that sense that we were together, even though we weren’t.  

I started to feel so grateful that I have such wonderful people in my life who shared their time with me on my special day – including all the friends and family who called, texted or emailed – so it would be absolutely ridiculous for me to allow myself to think Woe is Me, simply because an in-person gathering I was looking forward to didn’t pan out.

It is unfortunately so easy these days to get immersed in that dark Life Sucks mindset, especially when it seems doing anything celebratory or “normal” is off the table.

Being frustrated or upset and feeling negative might seem like the more realistic state of being at times, but I really don’t want to live like that. I’ve realized that staying positive is all about where I actively direct my mind to go. This choice to feel good or bad is mine to make.

Hopefully soon we can all get back to doing what we like, spend time with people we love, and make plans that stick.

Until then...