I'm a Kid! How can I be a Grand-parent?

I haven't been blogging in this space for quite awhile, but with the "extra" hours of this coronavirus flat circle of time, I returned.

Since last posting, I have published another book, continued with my biblical studies, and kept in pretty good physical shape. Despite these consistencies, and feeling internally just as I always have, something happened to me that re-defines my position in life.

It started when my kids were teenagers. My son, the third of my children, for instance, at age 17 started dating a very beautiful redhead. Post high-school, he spent a year abroad, dreaming of her and trying to find internet connections so they could communicate.

Five years after he met her, my son married this lovely, smart, loyal woman, who continued in her own education to become an oncology nurse. They had a breathtakingly lovely wedding and, despite my son's youth, soon found themselves expecting a baby.

But wait! I'm supposed to be the Mommy! You're supposed to be the baby!

Nevertheless, they produced the most physically perfect little red-headed daughter, who burst from the womb with n unstoppable personality and before a blink, an amazing vocabulary (albeit with the most charming pronunciations).

But...me a grandma? Impossible. Everyone inquired, "What's your 'grandma name' going to be?" I didn't want one. I finally said, okay, little Julia can call me what my own firstborn was able to say earliest: "Meh-Meh."

But Julia couldn't say the shvah "eh" sound, so I became "Mimi." I didn't choose Mimi. I chose Mommy, Mama and Mom. Denial isn't just a river in Egypt.

Julia started toddling and became increasingly irresistible. Then she got a job: flower girl at her aunt's wedding. She was to wear a fern wreath on her hair and walk down the aisle dropping rose petals. The wedding, on Memorial Day in a forest,  was exquisite. Julia refused the wreath, eschewed the petals, and paused along the walkway. And stole the show, at least for a few minutes.

Several months later, Julia got a baby sister, Emily. A dark-haired beauty whose language is smiles. But it was too late to start over: I am Mimi, like it or not.

Several months more, and now, in June, 2020, in the midst of coronavirus craziness, the bride Julia momentarily upstaged gave birth. A boy! Definitely the cutest little boy to ever fill a mama's forearm. And I'm no longer to deny my status. Yes, I'm a...Mimi.

So, Mazel tov to my daughter and son-in-law on the arrival of little Micah, and continued pride to my son and daughter-in-law on the ongoing accomplishments of Julia and Emily as they wend through toddler-hood into childhood, and remind me that time does not freeze. In fact, they say it's like a roll of toilet paper: It goes faster the closer you get to the end. (Back to that river in Egypt!)

What Parenthood is All About

From the headline, "Sharing the Shame After My Arrest," you'd think today's "Modern Love" column in the New York Times was about remorse at being caught breaking the law.  You'd be wrong: it's about the essence of parenthood.

I haven't cried as much over something I've read in quite a while.

The author, Brooke Rinehart, is a 28-year-old employee of a New York public relations firm whose new husband stole her identity and used it to commit wire and mail fraud, federal offenses.  Before that was established, she was awakened by officers one morning, handcuffed, and hauled out of her newly-purchased home in pajamas.  As her life unraveled over the 90-day period it took to clear her, her mother took on and traveled the emotional distance, physically and soulfully there for her, sleeping, contorted, in a living room chair so as not to be more than a few feet from her distraught daughter, who was sleeping on the couch.

The daughter lost her appetite. So too, the mother.  The daughter grieved her marriage, her lost home, her future, her assessment of reality. So too, the mother.  The father, being male, did his best to be supportive, but in a different (and equally important) way.

My mom in action

When I got to the end of the article, where Brooke's female gynecologist finds out about the whole sordid story and is overcome with emotion about the mom's devotion, I was a basket case.  You can't really put into words the complete investment of a parent in a child, the extent of hopes and prayers for the child's well-being, and the ongoing urgency to prevent, and if necessary, cushion any negative experiences.  Not because the child is you, but because the child is more than you, your sense of possibility and continuity and the repository of years of tiny efforts that seem like privilege because the child then takes that, and from what you gave, becomes an individual.

My children, now launching into their own worlds, probably think me clingy when I want them to kiss me goodbye. When I ask about what they're doing, and need reassurance they're all right.  I was one of those guilty children who couldn't understand my own parents' protectiveness, and as a teen, when I'd grouse, they'd respond that I'd understand someday.  I thought it preposterous.

But here I am. I'd sleep in a chair, too, if my child were going through an ordeal.  That doesn't make me a heroine. That makes me a mother.

"Mom, I'm OK, but there was Terrorist Attack here in Jerusalem today..."

I was still snoozing at 6:30 this morning when the phone rang. I guessed it was a radio interview for my husband who arises early, and let him pick it up.  But soon he was calling my name--saying it was our son.

"Bad timing," I thought, assuming our 18-year-old wanted the flight information for his return home for Passover. But no.  "Mom, I'm all right," he began, and I bolted upright.

"There was a terrorist attack at the bus stop today, and I just wanted to let you know I'm okay."  My son is spending the year in Jerusalem studying at a yeshiva, a post-high-school program focusing on Jewish texts designed to set him on the right path spiritually for life. The only transportation he uses in Jerusalem is busses, and he rides them from one end of town--where his school is located--to the other, where we have friends and family.  Yes, my son told me, he stands at and rides by that bus stop often, including the day before.

"Well don't ride any more busses," I told him firmly, recalling placing the same restriction on our daughter when she spent 2004-5 in seminary there.

It's only moms who are far away giving such admonitions.  The rest of Israel, including all of Jerusalem, soon went about its business in normal fashion.  The modern, fast-paced nation doesn't let one incident slow it down, and in fact, the attitude is that a strong and vibrant culture will repel repercussions better than dwelling on injury.

And Israel is definitely strong.  Both men and women serve in the military, wearing their M-16 guns slung across their backs even when off-duty.  The sight of well-armed and well-trained youth on the streets brings a feeling of security.  As do careful inspections of trunks of cars as they pull into parking lots and structures, and watchful door guards at cafes and gathering places.

I'll never forget the sight at my nephew's wedding three years ago--his army buddies dancing around him link-armed in a circle, their long guns flapping against their backs as they jumped and high-stepped in joy.  This is a society that trusts in God, but knows that man must do his part as well.

So, there was a a bomb, perhaps remotely controlled to hit a passing bus, left next to the bus stop. A woman died, three are in critical condition, twenty are injured.  President Obama "condemns in the strongest possible terms" the bombing and in the same paragraph expresses "deepest condolences" to the families of 4 Palestinians accidentally killed in a Gaza airstrike aimed to stop the "dozens of rockets" that Benjamin Netanyahu says Hamas has "rained down" on southern Israel targets over the past several days.

I don't think the latest attack affected the safety situation in Israel overall.  The modern, achieving people in that tech-savvy country are aware that some of their Jew-hating neighbors want them eliminated.  They continue to carry out their usual activities, with a prudent sense of caution, aware that in the broader context, Israel has a very low intentional murder rate--2.1 per 100,000 population compared to the U.S.'s rate of 5.0 per 100,000 people. (Mexico and Russia both show 15 murders per 100,000 population in latest figures.)

As a mom, I'd rather have all my children close to me, and certainly prefer to have my son within my protective purview.  But I also know that this is a precious year for him, a year when he can gain independence within the structure of a grounded program that will reinforce solid values.  He likes his teachers and feels he's maturing and gaining insight.  So, happy as I'll be when he returns home for Passover, I also know that there's something worthwhile about this special time in Jerusalem, center of spirituality.

I don't relish unexpected phone calls telling me of very frightening events. But being a parent means that unless your kids are sleeping soundly under your own roof, you're bound to have a tinge of worry, and if they're old enough to be on their own, I'd rather their early morning phone call begin with "Mom, I'm all right..."  Somehow, I believe (though I continue to pray) that Israel will be all right, too.