Five Years

When I close my eyes at night, I can imagine just about anything. 

I can picture my stepson Matthew walking in the front door.  I can almost hear his keys jingling at the lock, followed by the squish of sneakers going up the steps to his room, which he shared with Michael. 

"Come in and say 'HI!' before you go upstairs," David would call out to him from the kitchen.    

"Come in and say goodnight," David would ask of him before he hit the sack, when he knew Matthew would be out late.      

Reliving this dialogue in my head can be very convincing that it's happening in real time.

If only it were.

Yesterday marked five years since Matthew passed away.

 

One of our little neighbors, Johnny,  just turned 5.  He rides a bike on his own and is a big bad first grader.  His whole life has taken place in the time frame that Matthew' s been gone.  

This is a most shocking and sobering measurement of how long it's been. 

While it's true that the passing of time helps the healing process, it can't eliminate voids of this nature. 

However, these days while tears are less constant and more sporadic than they were for the first year or two,  it's unnerving how the triggers can come from anywhere and at anytime.   

Take going out to dinner.  The waiter comes to our table and says, "Welcome to Mexican Food Factory, my name is Matthew and I'll be taking care of you."

Immediately, I ask myself, Couldn't we have a waiter with a different name?  Maybe I should check that before we sit down next time.  

Seemingly harmless conversation with friendly people can turn from entertaining to dreadful in a matter of seconds. 

A common topic - at a Bed & Breakfast, during breakfast  when unfamiliar couples sit together - usually starts with establishing everyone's home states and then almost always moves to the children..."Do you guys have kids?  How many? "   

I've become more assertive with taking control of the conversation from the getgo, which plays an important role in keeping the exchange light.  

I also dig into my meal at a fairly rapid pace so that we can make a quick getaway before it's our turn to answer potentially difficult questions.

But when I realize that the predictable questions are unavoidable, my heart goes out to the person or couple asking so innocently about our Brady Bunch configuration, knowing the potential for darkness is looming in the information I'd be about to pass on.

There are times I have to admit that I've wanted to say that we have 4 kids, not 5, but I'd be disappointed in myself to leave Matthew out of the equation just because it's easier for me.

It's not because I don't have great memories of and stories about Matthew and a desire to share them, but the road to them is too painful.

Maybe one day this part will become easier, but in my heart I know that may never happen.

Stay or Go?

David and I just got back from our annual 8-day vacation in Maine. 

 

Halfway through Day 1, already under the familiar New England coastal town spell, I was asking myself the same 2 questions that I ruminate about each year:  1 - Why wasn't I born here?  and 2 - Do I have to leave?   

Regarding the first question...seriously...why couldn't my parents have decided to set up shop in a lovely town right on the water - say in Camden or Boothbay Harbor - instead of the fifth largest city in the USA?      

Philadelphia is indeed rich in culture, history and the arts - and much more - but wandering around town doesn't bring about the serenity I experience feasting my eyes upon infinite hues of blues and greens that sparkle in the big, beautiful and boundless sea.

The reality is that my parents, who traveled around as union organizers in the 1950s, could've made great changes all over the country. It's not far-fetched to say that they could've worked their progressive magic for the thousands of lobstermen (for example) all over Maine who have struggled for decades to protect their livelihood and therefore their families, threatened by a variety of issues including market pricing, regulatory restrictions, the legislative process and so on.

So if my folks had been drawn to a life on the coast, a natural step for me would've been to become a sailor, a lobster fisherman, run a Bed & Breakfast on the waterfront, or maybe I'd express myself as an artist.  I like to think that I'd be known for my imagined series called "Reflections," which would highlight the images of people and trees and clouds and buildings and lights as they dance upon the surface of the water.       

And had I grown up there, perhaps I'd enjoy vacations completely opposite of that, like annual trips to Philly, though I'm fairly certain that I wouldn't be touring in the heat of the summer.  It's possible I'd be so sad to depart from the City of Brotherly Love as that week came to an end that I'd begin to ponder a move from Boothbay in the hopes of satisfying my longing to live in a vibrant, colorful, urban environment instead.  

Now...with regard to my second question above:  Do I have to leave (Maine)? 

Well I'm home, so yes, I knew I had to go, this time.    

But looking ahead, here's what I don't know, on the subject of wanting to stay, even as I go:  Is the allure of coastal living so strong because it contrasts greatly to my past and current lifestyle, or would I truly be happy and content through winter, spring, summer and fall?      

David says their winters are too long, cold and snowy, and we'd be stuck inside for what could be almost half of the year.  He knows first-hand how crazy I get when I'm cooped up (which probably scares him to death).

  

Joking aside, I respond by saying I want to experience autumn with its golden, amber and scarlet foliage and I want to breathe in the crisp, still air as I watch the winter snow blanket the ocean.    

Maybe next year...

One Step at a Time

I love my new toy!

Just opened up the package yesterday and there it was...my Fitbit!

As many of you know, the Fitbit is a wireless activity tracker which can sync with one's smart phone and computer to keep track of all sorts of details including steps taken, calories burned, floors climbed and so on.

I had my eye on this for some time, but since I'm generally gadget-adverse, I viewed it as a  trendy gimmick vs. a valuable tool, and so I dismissed it.    

But then a few conversations reignited my interest:

During my check-up last week, I mentioned to my doctor that I'm often very tired, especially when I'm at work.  To combat that, I tend to nibble on things - some healthy, some not - all day long, as I sit in my chair for what could be 9 or 10 hours, other than a half hour for lunch.

My doctor said that the new American Diabetes Association study recommends that every 90 minutes everyone should stand up and GET YOUR BODY MOVING. 

I don't have diabetes, although I had gestational diabetes with one of my pregnancies, but  the point is well taken.  GET OFF MY BUTT!

It echoed another recent message from the American Heart Association, which stated the importance of 30 minutes of exercise per day.   

My doctor's suggestion was that every time I reach for that next bite of something when I'm at my desk, I should take a walk to the water cooler instead.  (I just realized that I forgot to do this.)  

I brought up the subject of the Fitbit to see her reaction, and her eyes lit up.  DO IT! she said, enthusiastically.  I like my doctor.  I began to reconsider.

A couple days later, I was talking to one of my brothers about it, and he said he has seen some of the judges he works with wear the Fitbit, and he's also noticed that they are very fit people.   I liked the way that sounded.   I want to look like a fit person.

I told all this to my girlfriend at work. She too had been contemplating getting one.  Together we became very excited!   Now I had a partner to share in this new endeavor.  I was good to go.   

The Fitbit goal for the average person is 10,000 steps per day.  Initially, I wondered if that would be doable without a concentrated period of exercise. 

Last night I wore the Fitbit for the very first time at 6 p.m.  From then until bedtime, around midnight, I logged about 3,000 steps. This included a walk with Shea Doggy, going out to dinner, doing laundry and other stuff at home and even sitting down for 2 hours to watch a movie.  David said he didn't think the steps I took to get Milk Duds should count, but I told him it's all fair game, right? 

The beauty of the Fitbit is that all the steps accumulate, and being able to keep track provides instant gratification.  I didn't think I cared about that, but apparently I do.

Today was my first full day with my new companion, and I had high hopes for myself, but as of 9:30 a.m., I'd only clocked slightly over 600 steps.  I was nervous that I wouldn't get to 10,000, especially since Shea's performance outside this morning was rather disappointing.

I know it was hot, but he refused to take a long walk. He didn't respond when I tried to explain that I'm counting on him to reach that magic Fitbit number. He may not care about my situation since he gets his exercise running all around the house when he sees a dog or truck, but that doesn't help me any.

Therefore, I headed to the gym.   When I arrived, I had about 2,000 steps logged in.  After an hour - 20 minutes on the bike, 20 on the treadmill, and another 20 doing weight training - I was only at about 2,200: just 200 more than where I started.

I forgot to set the Fitbit to record my exercising.  I was so bummed!  

A couple hours ago, I received an email from Fitbit stating that I've received my first Boat Shoe step badge - I hit 5,000 steps. 

Shortly thereafter, I got another email stating that I just received my first Happy Hill badge, having climbed 10 floors.

Wow! I impressed myself!  

Minutes later, guess what?!?!??!

I checked my Fitbit, and I made it to 10,000!

Within minutes, I received my first Sneakers badge, congratulating me for accomplishing this milestone. 

Now I guess I won't have to make a late night trip to the freezer for some ice cream!   

Tony

Sunday mornings rock at my house - for David and me, anyway.

That's because we give in to our whim, which means we load up on carbs from a local breakfast/bakery/bagel joint, and we savor each and every bite. 

We usually get a mix of everything, sesame and poppy bagels, at times upping the ante with whitefish and/or lox and cream cheese spread.  We know this isn't a very healthy habit, and periodically with soft pressure from our loved ones we consider substituting various alternatives, but so far we haven't been able to make a lasting change.   

  

Perhaps this routine may be extra hard to break because it is about more than the bagel.  It is also about the man - and his entourage - behind the bagel.  

If it weren't for the proprietor of the store, Tony, and his buddies, our Sunday mornings wouldn't be nearly as entertaining, which of course makes our bagels more luscious.  All of these components have created the experience we are hooked on.

Tony, who my handsome but bald husband tells me wears a toupee which changes over time based on pictures in the store, is accompanied most of the time by 2 other guys:  "Shrek" and Peter or, as David and I refer to them in their entirety, The Three Stooges.

Tony is an enigma to us and, as such, David and I view him differently.  David thinks he's a good guy overall who at times can be rather crass, all in the name of being friendly; I, on the other hand, question whether he can be a nice guy when he can also be so offensive.   

Tony's friend Shrek - coined by Tony for his wandering eye - is forever the target of Tony's insulting remarks, often focusing on Shrek's unfortunate eye condition. 

Peter is all about damage control when Tony oversteps.  

The three of them are a well-oiled machine.

It's almost like Shrek is the official sidekick, paid to give Tony subject matter so that he can ridicule to his heart's content, all in the name of entertaining his customers. 

One day I asked Shrek why he puts up with Tony.    

  

He looked more disturbed by my comment than he ever did by Tony's name calling, and then he told me that he doesn't take Tony seriously.  "He's just talking," he said.  "It's no big deal." 

Maybe men are better apt to handle such bluntness and disregard than women are.  David isn't bothered that Tony calls him "Baldy," which David gets a kick out of since it's Tony who covers up his baldness under his rug, whereas David sports his naked head proudly.

Tony is a fair guy in that he doesn't discriminate; the harshness of his comments are equally distributed among sexes, ethnic groups and those with physical issues of one kind or another. 

When he called the young African American man who entered the store the other day "Hey Jamaican," I first cringed and then I looked for this guy's reaction.  I wouldn't have been surprised had he turned around and walked out of the store; instead, he sat right down and asked for a breakfast sandwich.

To be fair, Tony's not always insulting; sometimes he's just naughty and off color, but frankly I find these comments highly amusing.  I think I'd actually miss them if he had laryngitis.   

I'm not at all offended when he calls out to me "Hey, Sexy!" when I walk in to the store. 

In fact, I get a kick out of it - I even wait to hear it and would probably be disappointed if I didn't.  When a man addresses a 55+ year-old as  "Sexy,"  he's more apt to make her Top 5 List than to be shunned by her.  This may be shameful, but I'm fairly certain it's true.

Sometimes Tony gets a bit carried away, like when I reached the counter after a 10-minute wait and asked him if I could have one of the chocolate chip cookies he had offered to the little kids when they were waiting. 

"I'll give you something girl, but it's not going to be a chocolate chip cookie!"

It was a cheap thrill, I admit...but as Shrek said, Tony's just talking, and it wasn't nearly as objectionable as it was comical, since I chose to take it that way, thanks to Shrek's lead.

I'm sure some women would be appalled that I'd joke about his comment rather than hit him over the head or file a complaint against him, but no harm was done.  We each got a laugh out of it, which is pretty good on a Sunday morning at 8:30 a.m.

Maybe he should have control over his flirt-o-meter, but he doesn't, whether it's with me or any woman who strikes his fancy.  I actually feel embarrassed for him when he falls all over himself trying to be suave. 

"I see you brought your daddy in with you today," David heard Tony say to a pretty woman who came in with her husband.

The woman chuckled, as did her husband, and David and I were entertained by Tony's Archie Bunker/Howard Stern-style personality for the rest of the morning.

I thought about asking Tony to join us at home for breakfast one day...but not when one of our daughters is home.   

Two Brides

You know that feeling you get when you are fairly certain you're on the cusp of something incredibly memorable?   

Saturday night in Cambridge, Massachusetts was one of those times.    

David and I sat outside at the Multicultural Arts Center to witness the marriage of his dear friend's daughter.  

The setting was beautiful:  lush greenery, a nice cool breeze, musicians playing in the background, everyone jockeying for the best seats in the house, and lots of very dressed up people smiling from ear-to-ear.

From the start, with over 150 guests milling around, I assumed it would play out like other weddings except there would be two women in the lead roles instead of a woman and a man.  It reminded me of my take on vegetarian chili the first time I made it, substituting a vegetable or two for the meat portion of the recipe and calling it a day.   

I began to see subtle variations from the "norm" as the ceremony began, with the absence of a trio of familiar customs:  a bridal party dressed in a theme color, bridesmaids walking down the aisle followed by "Here Comes the Bride," and ONE bride, in all her glory, making a grand entrance.

Instead, the two brides addressed their guests from the chuppah - the bridal canopy - and thanked us all for coming, introduced both officiants and explained the importance of the Jewish and Catholic wedding practices we'd see. This was followed by a reading of the proclamation that legalized same-sex marriage in Massachusetts.

After blessings by a handful of their most special guests, these two young ladies exchanged their vows.  These promises started with stories that outlined similar values and beliefs, their love and respect for one another and the moment each knew she was in love.   

As I sat there overwhelmed with joy for them, in large part as a result of the thrill they shared in being able to wed, I found myself thinking that everyone - most of all same sex naysayers - should realize the power of connection and how much better the world could be if more people were able to find the peace that these two have in loving one another.  

    

When the celebration was over, I realized it played out very differently than I had expected.  I didn't see the traditional "show" with a substitution here and there.  I was instead privy to a uniquely powerful and enlightening glimpse of life and love for two people who in another time would've been gypped from the honor of formalizing the potentially lifelong bond of marriage.    

I am happy to say that I too share in the enormous appreciation for the jubilation and triumph of this new era, when lesbians and gays are finally free to marry, like everyone else.

Memories Live On

'Tis the season for some Mommy and Me quality time, even if she's not here to enjoy it.   

Two of my biggest worries when she passed were: 1 - being afraid I'd begin to forget all those times we spent together and 2- letting memories of her strong drive and grit begin to slip away.

I'm starting to believe these things will never happen, as everything's a trigger, in a good way.

Last night, I heard a woman talking about her 97 year-old mother.  "My mom lived to 97 too," I thought to myself. 

This morning, I made a fruit salad and what bowl did I reach for, in my Color Me Mine cabinet?  The triangular one that my mom made a few years ago, when we went for my birthday.

This afternoon, I went to see Pitch Perfect 2 with my girls and laughed thinking about that time my mom and I sat on the first row of the Esquire Movie theatre in our West Oak Lane neighborhood to catch The Boston Strangler. That's not a movie one should sit up close to see, but that's what happens when you come in 45 minutes late.  That's actually not a movie one should see, period.

The memories of Mom keep on coming. 

One of her biggest attributes that I think about often was the fact that she was always willing to invest in those she believed in.    

One such example is the commitment she made to an elementary school in the neighborhood where she and my dad raised their 4 kids and where she became a most dedicated community activist.

My mom was the co-founder and president of the Ogontz Area Neighbors Association and through this organization a core group of residents worked hard to make the neighborhood a better place. They accomplished this in many ways, but two notable achievements were the establishment of a family center and gym program at the Pennell Elementary School and also the creation of scholarships to local high school students entering Temple University.   

My mom was especially passionate about the Pennell School, so much so that a mural of my parents was painted there representing many decades of dedication.  

        

When she was about 90 years old - a few years after my dad passed - she decided she wanted to create a new ritual at Pennell which would both inspire and assist its elementary school graduates. 

Students were asked to write essays in response to the question, "What does Pennell mean to me?"

She (and her kids, including me) would then pick one male and one female to win a Councilman David and Florence Cohen Award for Academic Achievement and Good Citizenship.  The winners were asked to read their essays during the graduation ceremony, followed by the presentation of gifts (in recent years, Kindles). 

My siblings, our kids and I have appreciated these essays as they are a combination of entertaining, eye opening and rewarding.  It is a real privilege to have access to the inner thinking of such fine young men and women.   

  

This is the first year without Mom's input as to who the winner should be, but I know she had faith in us, as she reminded me before she passed that she hopes we continue the tradition long after she's gone.

Soon I'll be in Ocean City with my kids and I'm certain that one of them will ask the annual question, "Remember that time Bubbe played ball with us on the beach?"

She gave so many of us her very best.

Once and Always

A friend recently commented to me that a mother's work is never done. 

She said this in response to my telling her that I couldn't get together on June 4th, since I had planned to morph into my old familiar role of Nurse Judy.  

This was the date that my daughter, Amy, was scheduled to have her tonsils and adenoids removed. 

Amy is my youngest "child," set to graduate from college in December after student teaching, and excited about her potential plan to live with girlfriends once they're all employed. 

Twelve hours after surgery, I found myself hovering over her as I did 20 years before, trying to help guide the jello into her mouth so she could wash down all the medication necessary to withstand the recovery process.   

It didn't take me long to reprise the role of the much-needed caregiver, a.k.a. MOM, and I was very happy going back to it.  It always feels right.  Even at 3 a.m..  Even for a 22 year-old.

Times like these, when for whatever the reason our adult kids need their moms, may be few and far between, so I really savor them. 

However, with Amy's return to normal life slated to take a couple weeks or so, I'm going to get very comfortable being in the driver's seat for an extended period of time.

Even though it's by far the easiest place to be in - when the roles are clearly defined, we're all on the same page and I'm the boss - this change in routine sets into motion the emotional roller coaster we moms work so hard to neutralize. 

Sometimes we're needed, sometimes we're not. It's all very confusing. 

As for now, Amy seems pleased with my medication chart, my opinion on what foods she might be able to tolerate, my willingness to run out and get her juice as needed  and, most of all, our time together. 

   

I agree with my friend. 

A mother's work is never done.

Is there anything better?  I think not.