Signs

I know that spring is approaching.  The birds were chirping wildly early this morning rustling the ferns of my cypress trees as I walked Sonny out in the backyard.  The fledglings sometimes tease him by coming within reach and then flying higher while he jumps up, making futile attempts to catch them.  I believe there must be nests up there high in the branches.  I have noticed perfect shells on the grass on occasion.  I love those birds; they remind me of my grandma, Fanny, who loved them as well.  It was the Red-Breasted Robin she loved the most, which is often considered the first sign of spring.  I have seen them here, catching my breath as I spot their vermillion trunk and when I do, I feel as if Fanny is visiting, reminding me she will always watch over me. 

This past week was one of minor mishaps and hiccups.  It began on Monday, when I walked into, actually crashed into, one of my kitchen cabinets.  The right side of my forehead is still quite sore from the incident.  This happens quite often- I go to do something absentmindedly and all of a sudden I am blindsided by the cabinet door I forgot to close.  Not only do I feel stupid, I am in a great deal of pain and I worry if this is a concussion that will ultimately lead to brain damage.

Then, on Tuesday, I was putting away my wine glasses in the cabinet and knocked down a martini glass, which I don’t even understand why I own because I seldom, if ever, have martinis.  It took me half an hour to get all the shattered glass cleaned up from the floor.  My superstitious mother, who attributes deeper meanings to everything, always says broken glass is a sign that something good is going to happen.  So, I waited all week for really good news, which didn’t come.  But I guess I could consider it’s good that I survived the impact of my head colliding with the kitchen cabinet with no apparent brain injury.   

My brain, though, is definitely not as sharp as it used to be.  I realized that I wasn’t getting any phone responses for the baby shower, so I went to double check the invitation to discover that the area code for my cell-phone was wrong.  Oops.  Add that to the fact that we omitted an RSVP date.  Oops again. And I did all this before I banged my head.

Lindsay is now 25 weeks and 1 day.  My granddaughter, “Tallulah”, is about 2 lbs. and the size of an eggplant.  She was the size of an eggplant last week, too, so I guess she’s just a bigger eggplant or they’re running out of produce to make comparisons with.  Lindsay also had a rough week.  Besides for her backache, she had a bad case of indigestion for the first time in her life. (Welcome to my world, dear daughter.)  Furthermore, she is looking for a job, having just completed her masters for Special Education.  Even though she is still working as an actress here and there, doing stand-in and background work on movies and television shows and occasionally substitute teaching, she needs a secure, steady way to earn a living to help support her soon-to-be family of three.  Two income families are a necessity now.  It is not easy and harder still when you’re 6 months pregnant to find a job these days though.   

My younger daughter, Kim, is also waiting to hear about a new job- the dream job that she has had three interviews for.  Although they’ve checked all her references, which are stellar, it’s been almost a month now and she hasn’t heard any news.  That’s why I was almost happy when I broke the martini glass on Tuesday.  I thought, certainly, that the good news would be that Kim found out that she got her dream job.  But no such news came.  Maybe there’s a delay on the “signs” of breaking glass or possibly I might have to accidently, on purpose, break some more of the nine still-remaining martini glasses I own and don’t need. 

Amidst all this slight aggravation and even though poor mommy-to-be has had backaches and stomachaches and stress about employment, my granddaughter gets bigger and stronger every day.  I finally got to feel her delicious kicks a few times already.  As a matter of fact, Lindsay told me that when she was sleeping against Scott’s back the other night he could feel little jabs in his rear.  That would mean that literally, Tallulah is kicking her daddy’s butt. 

Lindsay is growing bigger every day too, especially in the boob area.  She informed me yesterday that she has to go to Victoria’s Secret to get measured for a bra she wants to order online.  I told her she didn’t have to go to Victoria’s Secret, that I would help her with measuring her boobs.  I watched a video online about correctly measuring for your bra size and I’m practically an expert now.  So Lindsay came over and I measured twice and got two different measurements.  One measurement told us she went down a cup size­– highly unlikely, the other measurement told us she stayed the same size– highly unlikely, also.  I was trying to redeem myself for the invitation blooper.  I had to admit, though, that maybe I’m really not an expert on bra measurements. 

I also have to add that I'm not the only one whose mind is not so sharp.  Lindsay called me this morning in a tizzy, asking me, excitedly, Mom, do you know what we're doing about Passover?!  (She's all excited about Passover this year because she is craving chicken soup with homemade matzoh balls.)  

Lindsay, I replied, I don't even know when Passover is.  

Well, she responded, in a panic, it's tomorrow.  

Tomorrow? I said, where did you hear that? 

I looked it up on the Internet.  It says it starts Monday, March 25th and ends Tuesday, April 2nd!

I thought for a moment, exhaled a big sigh of relief, then I asked, And what day is tomorrow, Linds..?"

She paused.  Oh.  It's February 25th....Never mind. 

And so another week begins; it is still February, regardless of my daughter's pregnant brain's confusion.  I promised myself that I would be more diligent in closing the kitchen cabinet doors, from now on.  I also promised myself to keep faith in the sign the broken martini glass foretold that good news is coming.  After all, frigid February is almost over and spring is just around the corner.   

         

Life Cycles

Lindsay has officially begun her sixth month of pregnancy.  My granddaughter is the size of an eggplant.  At this stage her brain is growing quickly and her lungs are developing “branches” of the respiratory “tree”....just as she is adding to the branches of the Kalmus and Feldman family trees.   

Last night, Mark and I went with the expectant parents out to dinner in a crowded, dark and noisy restaurant.  The only thing about it that was unique was its name, the same as a famous author, one of whose quotes was “There is nothing to writing.  All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.”  Hmm…I think I know what you mean, Mr. Hemingway, even in the 21^st century, without a typewriter. 

During dinner, Lindsay was telling us about how it sometimes feels as if the baby is hanging onto her ribs, how painful it could be and how she tries to move her to a better position.  I asked her what it feels like when the baby moves.  She made waving motions with her arm.  Then she showed me where the baby was in her belly, guessing it was her butt or back.  I put my hand there, on the bottom right of her once perfectly flat stomach, now bulging with life and I felt something hard and strong.  I was yearning to feel a kick, but didn’t.  “Sometimes, she only feels it inside of her,” Scott explained.  “Then at around 11:15 at night, she starts to move a lot and you feel either the feet or the hands at the top, or maybe an elbow.”  Lindsay showed me where she thought the feet would be and I moved my hand higher to that spot, but still no kicks for grandma. 

When I think back on both my pregnancies, I try to recall what it felt like to have that life move inside me with either Lindsay or Kim.  I do remember, vaguely, that Kim hurt me when she kicked, but can’t conjure up that sensation.  The only sensation I do remember vividly is when I was pregnant with Lindsay.  It was much too early in the pregnancy to feel the baby move.  As a matter of fact, it was right after I was sure that I had lost the baby because at the end of my first trimester, I had bled.  Not a little bit.  It seemed like it had to be a miscarriage, because I was hemorrhaging.  When I went to the doctor and he examined me, he told me that the baby had probably died.   To be sure, though, I needed an ultrasound, which, back then, took three days to schedule.  Ultrasounds were not standard procedure in the early eighties.

Those three days waiting for the ultrasound were the longest I endured in my life.  The night before the day of my appointment I was lying on my stomach trying to fall asleep, miserable.  Below my belly button, I felt fluttering, as if a butterfly had emerged within me.  I dismissed it, thinking it was nothing, that I was most likely imagining it.  The next day when I laid on the table hopeless, while the technician did the ultrasound, she announced, “Here’s the baby’s heartbeat.”  I turned to her, shocked, and asked, “What heartbeat?” She looked at me as if I were nuts, “Your baby’s heartbeat; you’re about 13 weeks along. The doctor will give you the full report.”  So my fluttering little butterfly was Lindsay, perhaps whispering to me to never give up hope.  And that has always been her spirit, since the day she was born.

Last night, before I went to sleep, I thought of that time, over 30 years ago, when I first felt my baby move inside of me.  I dreamt of my granddaughter.  In the dream, I was working in a school and there was a student holding her.  I quickly grabbed the baby from him and took her in my arms. I felt her strength against my chest as I held her close to me.  I announced to everyone this was my granddaughter, Tallulah, but that is not her real name because her real name is a surprise.  Then I woke up.  It was a strange dream, like most are.  But there’s always a reason for your dreams and this one might mean that I’m just so anxious to finally meet that baby and hold her in my arms, for real. 

  

We are just midway through this journey and as much as the days are speeding by with Lindsay’s pregnancy, they are also dragging.  It’s a typical February and even though most of the record snowfall from last week has melted, it’s bone-chilling cold outside.  In spite of this, being a middle-aged woman, I can sit in thin leggings and a tank top in my kitchen and literally emit heat.  My mom came into the kitchen this morning wearing her velour robe over her flannel pajamas and sat down beside me.  “Aren’t you hot?” I asked her, “I’m sweating!  I can’t even look at you, it’s making me hotter.”  Of course, my mother being my mother thought she should take off her robe and believe she was as hot as I felt, or that somehow, taking her robe off, would eradicate my hot flash.  “No, you don’t have to take your robe off,” I said, “I just feel so hot looking at you!”  She left the room. 

Each day, each week, each month brings me closer to this new phase of my life- being a grandmother. It also brings me closer to the realization that, yes, I am getting older.  I am at the stage of life where I walk down the stairs and have to ask are those the creaks in the stairs I hear or the creaks in my knees?  I am forgetful at times and words don’t come as naturally and easily as they used to.  Just this week, on Valentine’s Day, I gave Mark his perfunctory card, made a special dinner for the three of us- Mark, myself and mom, with libations- a Chilean Cabernet. I held up my glass to make a toast and said, “Happy Thanksgiving!”  My mom looked at me confused.  Lucky I caught myself in time to realize my error.

Still, wasn’t it only yesterday when I was the carrying life within me and I felt those first flutters of my children?  Every stage leading up to that and past that is as ephemeral as a butterfly.  Those beautiful moments are what makes life worth living.  And as I anticipate this grandma chapter of my life, I will take the creaking knees, the hot flashes, the wrinkles and forgetfulness because as we get older, life still begins again and again. 

Princesses and Strippers

The expectant parents returned from their gratifying babymoon just in time for Nemo, the blizzard.  Parts of Long Island had record snowfall that began on Friday and ended sometime Saturday morning.  It was the kind of snowstorm that stranded drivers on the L.I.E.  Mark finally got a chance to use the snowblower he bought two years ago.  Even with the snowblower, it took him hours to clear away the mounds that were piled 18 inches in some places.  

My cloth snowman decoration on my front door is now covered in real snow.  The branches of the cypress trees in my backyard are bowing from the heavy white blankets, although "blankets of snow" is such a deceptive metaphor.  It certainly looks like a picture postcard but the inconvenience of it voids its alluring charm.  My street wasn’t plowed until the afternoon, so we were literally held captive.  This is exactly why the only thing I like about February is that it’s the shortest month.  Nineteen more days left of it.  And one hundred nineteen days until my granddaughter’s due date. 

Lindsay is now 23 weeks along. The baby is the size of an ear of corn, which is supposed to be bigger than a spaghetti squash (last week's produce parity), although, I haven’t seen an ear of corn that is bigger than a spaghetti squash.  I don’t know where they come up with these comparisons.  All I know is that my daughter’s belly is about the size of a watermelon.  And sometimes she does have that cute little pregnant girl “duck” waddle when she walks.  (She will probably kill me for saying that.  But she does; it’s adorable.) I think it's when her back hurts her- she might have sciatica, like I did.  

With just a little over four months to go, plans are being made for the arrival of our little princess.  And she is our little princess, in more ways than one, because my life and Lindsay’s have a cosmic parallel to royalty. I will explain.

Cosmic Parallel #1:

The day before I was born, my mother watched the televised event of Grace Kelly’s wedding to Prince Rainier.  True, Princess Grace was married on April 18^th, but because of the snail’s pace of technology back in the days of my birth, it took three days for it to be broadcast in America. And my mother watched that broadcast all day on a Saturday before she gave birth to me on Sunday, April 22, 1956. 

Cosmic Parallel #2:         

The day before I gave birth to Lindsay, I watched the televised, though unfortunate, event of Princess Grace Kelly­ Rainier’s funeral.  It was September 18^th, 1982, also a Saturday.  I was at my friends, Meryl and Steve’s house after a very filling Rosh Hashana dinner at my in-laws (brisket and potatoes).  Princess Grace had died from complications from an auto accident.  Everyone was devastated.  Her funeral was telecast the whole day. And the day after, on September 19^th, 1982, Lindsay was born, two weeks early.

Besides for those two eerie and strange concurrences, Lindsay was also born the same year as Prince William. I know it’s a different royal family and country, but still…  Furthermore, isn’t it ironic that Prince William and his wife, Kate, the duchess, are due to have a baby in July 2013, a month after Lindsay and Scott?  But even more coincidently, the Prince and Duchess just took their babymoon- the same week as Lindsay and Scott did.  It was in the newspaper.  Apparently, British expectant couples take babymoons too. 

Before Lindsay and Scott left for their trip, we made the baby shower arrangements.  We set the date, booked the restaurant, ordered the cake with very specific decorations, which took over an hour, and we designed invitations that match the cake and the theme that I am not at liberty to divulge. At least I’m in on this secret.  I still have no clue what the baby’s name will be yet. 

I had reservations about making a baby shower.  My mother and mother-in-law did not make me a baby shower when I was pregnant with Lindsay because they were superstitious; however, I did have one.  The girls at work made it for me.  It was in the office.  We had deli and a sheet cake and there was a stripper. Yes.  I had a stripper at my baby shower– a female stripper.  You can’t make this stuff up.

It turned out that at around the time I was going on maternity leave to have Lindsay, my boss, Harvey, was turning 30.  So, the people at work decided it would be cool to make a double celebration- a baby shower for me, Harvey’s assistant, and a 30^th birthday party for Harvey, hence the stripper.  He got his own sheet cake; we shared the deli.  Of course, the baby shower was a surprise, but the bigger surprise was watching my boss get a lap dance from a naked girl while I was 8 and ½ months pregnant.  I had about 10 minutes of attention at my baby shower.  I went home feeling ambivalent about the whole party; but at least I got a baby swing, a playpen and a high chair. 

Lindsay’s baby shower will be very different from mine.  First of all, there will be no deli and sheet cake is simply out of the question.  Lindsay must have a cake with fondant on it. Fondant is a thick paste made of sugar and water that is flavored and colored and is used to decorate the cake.  I honestly never heard of fondant until the wedding.  Her bridal shower cake had fondant, as did her wedding cake and naturally, the gender reveal cake.  So of course, her baby shower cake must have fondant too.  That’s why it takes over an hour to order it at the bakery.   

I have gotten over my hesitation about making a baby shower.  I actually am enjoying planning it because it’s making the winter go by quicker and I realize there are never enough special occasions to celebrate.  I am giving my daughter a lovely, memorable shower with decorations and favors and a cake iced in fondant, because after all, she’s my princess. 

And at this baby shower, there will definitely be no stripper.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             

Babymoons and Winter Blues

I have the winter blues.  It always happens around this time.  Right after the stupid ground hog comes out and everyone waits for him to tell them if we will have an early spring or six more weeks of winter.  We have the ability to predict hurricanes, chase tornadoes and track the pattern of storms because we have meteorologists.  There are weather channels and weather.com; even my iPhone gives me the local weather for whatever place I travel to.  There are almanacs, for G-d’s sake!!  Yet still, without fail, every February 2, we rely on a glorified rodent to forecast how much longer winter will be.  This has always baffled me– how folklore gets so much media attention even in the 21^st century, how we personify a woodchuck and depend on him seeing his shadow or not, a contradiction to science, if there ever was one. The irony is that I actually stop and wait with bated breath when I hear the first news reports about the groundhog’s shadow and foolishly pray that he will forecast “early spring”.  Then I’m conflicted when the groundhogs in Pennsylvania and Staten Island don’t see their shadows and the ones in Long Island do. So, who’s right?  Who knows?  Who cares?  I just would like to meet the people who employ the groundhog or do the shadow test with him, year after year, and tell them, “Enough already! Don’t you think it’s time for all groundhogs to retire and move to Florida, North Carolina or Vegas?”  I think I’ll start a petition on Facebook, because there aren’t ENOUGH petitions on Facebook, don’t you think??

Back to my winter blues.  Actually I really think I’m blue because Lindsay and Scott went on their babymoon.  Yes, even spell check underlined that in red– because who ever heard of a babymoon?  This is news to me and to many of my middle-aged friends and family.  Although, if you check on Wikipedia, you will find the term ‘babymoon’, which has several meanings.  The meaning that my daughter uses is­– a vacation taken by a couple that is expecting a baby in order to allow the couple to enjoy a final trip together before the many sleepless nights that usually accompany a newborn baby.  So, the parents-to-be are now cruising on the Caribbean seas.  Perfect timing for them because at precisely one in the morning, while they were being rocked to sleep in their cabin, I was walking their dog, George, in the snow and had a sleepless night without a newborn.  And that is because George likes to sleep on your head.  I would like to initiate a new “moon” and call it a ‘grannymoon’.  It will be a vacation taken by a grandma-to-be in order to enjoy a final trip before she enters the stage of wrinkled skin, white hair and rocking chairs.

I helped Lindsay get ready for her babymoon by going clothes shopping for her and with her for maternity wear suitable for Caribbean weather.  I also lent her my summer clothes from last year.  If you ever dreamed of sharing clothes with your size “2” daughter, take note, ladies, your tops that cover your middle-aged stomach bulge and oversized shorts fit your pregnant daughter perfectly. 

In order to fight my winter blues, I had my hair dyed yesterday- touching up my white roots and defying the “grandma” look with rosy red hair and splurging on a cut and blow.  While at the hair salon, I read the food magazines, instead of the usual gossip tabloids about celebrities whom I don’t care about.  I found a recipe for shrimp and artichoke quesadillas and decided to make it Latin night at the Feldman’s.  I shopped at Trader Joe’s to get all the ingredients.  The store was packed because apparently everyone was stocking up for the one inch of snow that was predicted.  Then I purchased a lovely bottle of Sangria at the liquor store.  I even picked up a small bundle of wood for Mark to build a fire.  If I can’t go on a grannymoon, I figured I might as well bring the grannymoon to Hicksville, Long Island. The quesadillas even had imported Argentinean shrimp, in keeping with my Latin Theme.  Everything was perfect, down to the Sangria garnished with sliced oranges, apples and lemons, and it briefly lifted my spirits and suppressed my winter blahs.  Until I had to walk the babymooners’ dog in the snow at one am. 

Today, we will have our traditional, annual Superbowl Sunday at Barbara and Eric’s house.  I will be with all my friends; the guys will watch the game, while the girls probably won’t.  We will eat and drink and laugh and talk about grandbabies and weddings and all the exciting upcoming events.  This will also help my winter funk, as well as thinking about my little Talulah on her parents’ babymoon, kicking in her mommy’s belly, the size of a spaghetti squash, now.  I bought one at the supermarket yesterday and had Mark hold it, too, while I announced- “That’s the size of your granddaughter, now.” 

I hope the parents-to-be enjoy their babymoon and rekindle their love for one another as they embark on the voyage of parenthood and discover how their love will grow “beyond the seas” when their little girl arrives.  For me, I want this week to go by quickly and the rest of the winter to speed by, regardless of what Punxsutawney Phil, Staten Island Chuck, Malverne Mel or Holtsville Hal might “say”, because when Spring arrives, it will be closer to the birth of my granddaughter.