Another Mother’s Day, Another Milestone

It is the day before Mother’s Day, 2014, as I write this, the evening of an unseasonably warm Saturday in May that ended with several afternoon downpours.  As I sit in my office, I still hear the rhythm of the spring rain outside my window.  

I have not written an entry to my blog in over a month.  The last time I did I was a week away from attending my 40^th High School Reunion.  That was five weeks ago– a distant, heartwarming memory of being with old friends whom I haven’t seen in decades.  It was an event I was hesitant to attend, but afterward, I was happy that I did.  That blog was titled, So, Where Does the Time Go?  I still don’t have the answer to that, except maybe that it just goes. 

I remember the night of the reunion as I entered the restaurant to over 100 people in their late 50s; those were the people of my youth, when I was just me.  I had a hard time recognizing many of them and then when I found my own nametag, I realized I also had a hard time recognizing that girl in the picture, as well.  She had my name, but not really.  Her name was Jean Berman-Feldman.  I haven’t gone by the name “Jean” since I graduated college.  And “Berman” was even more unfamiliar to my current identity.  Jean Berman had long dark hair and a young face- she felt like more of a stranger to me than most of the people in that room.   Several times, when people who didn’t recognize me asked who I was, I had to think what my name was.  As we caught up on our lives, I found myself talking more about my children and grandchild than anything else and mostly everyone did the same thing.  Of course, due to social media, many people knew about my present life and vice versa. 

That dark-haired, young girl named “Jean” on my nametag is not me anymore.  She is certainly a part of me, though, like a square on a patchwork quilt, joined with all the other patches that make up Jeannie, past and present- singer, actress, teacher, educational specialist, wife, writer– a potpourri of all the stages of my life, more than half of it, being a mother.  Those are the most treasured patches on my quilt.  And this year, another precious patch has been added-- being a grandmother.

Lexi is 11 months old now and has started to walk- early- unlike her mother and aunt.  Her personality is emerging- she is full of warmth and love.  When I sit on the floor with her while she is playing, she stops several times during her busy activities to put her head on my chest to show me affection; then she mischievously takes my glasses off and screams with delight.  She waves “bye-bye”, naturally with her hand facing her most of the time. And just this week Nanny, her great-grandmother, taught her how to clap hands. 

This past year, which has zoomed by, I have been blessed to not only witness my granddaughter develop from an infant into a precocious, chubby baby, but also to see my daughter evolve into an amazing mother.  And Lexi is just as attached to her as her mother was to me and apparently as I was to my mother (as my mother has told me).  She becomes hysterical when Lindsay just leaves the room.  There is a bond between a mother and child that is like the thread that holds a patchwork quilt together. 

My 31st Mother's Day-- and coincidently, my 31st entry for this blog; perhaps it was meant for me to wait this long to write.  This Mother's Day marks another milestone in my life- my first as a grandmother.  Another square has been added to the patchwork quilt that represents my life.  This patch is ocean blue, like Lexi’s eyes; the threads that bond it to the other patches are golden like her hair.  And in the center is her name, Lexi Grace, enclosed in a heart-shape.

Happy Mother’s Day  

 

So, Where Does the Time Go?

time- noun. the indefinite continued progress of existence and events in the past, present and future regarded as a whole.

This Friday, our granddaughter, Lexi Grace, turned 10 months old.  The traditional monthly picture was posted on Facebook by her daddy, Scott.  The same props as month 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8 and 9 surrounded Lexi– her crib, a picture frame declaring the milestone month and her first Teddy Bear– a giant sized fluffy pink Gund given to her by Great Aunt Maryanne who said it was what her late Great Uncle Scott would have picked out.  The only difference in this photo is that the number of the month in the picture frame and Lexi are bigger.  Each month reveals her growing older and brighter, with more hair and naturally, better posture.  The Teddy Bear used to seem massive; now it’s getting smaller, like the lovely, distant memory of the day of her birth.  There is also one other thing that doesn’t seem to change– the color of Lexi’s eyes, still so mesmerizingly blue, as constant as the sky and the essence of time.

So, where does the time go?  Everyone asks, rhetorically.  I used to think, when I was a child and teenager, that time moved slowly, at a snail’s pace.  Ten months felt like an eternity.  Once I had my children, though, the snail became like butterflies, ephemeral and swift, barely present long enough to enjoy its beauty before it fluttered away.  Now, that I’m a grandmother, it feels as though time is the bird that sits outside my window on my Japanese maple tree at the dawn of spring daring me to take notice of his presence before he flies abruptly away.  I’m always a little disappointed that his appearance was so brief, and then I forget and go on with my day. 

At this point in time I am 57, 11 months and 7 days old.  I have stubborn lines around my eyes and the corners of my mouth that no miracle cream can erase and believe me I have tried them all.  I now smile as much as possible to make my frown lines disappear; although, it seems to be producing more lines, only higher.  I am beginning to see droopy jowls under my jaw and deeper creases at the base of my neck.  Therefore, scarves are an essential part of my wardrobe and I do believe that a middle-aged woman probably devised the growing fashion trend of scarf wearing, bless her heart.  Some signs of aging I can camouflage or cover up, not so the skin on my hands, which is translucent and thin and dotted with stubborn brown age spots.  Still, some people are surprised when I reveal my age; I self-deprecatingly tell them they need their eyes checked.   

My Grandma Fanny used to say that it doesn’t matter how old you are or what you look like on the outside, on the inside you still feel like that 18-year old girl you once were.  I know just what she means now.  That 18-year old girl (me) will be attending (reluctantly) her 40^th high school reunion next week.  That same 18-year old girl drove all the way to her 25^th high school reunion 15 years ago, into the parking lot and out of the parking lot without going in.  Believe me, that 18-year old 42-year-old girl looked a lot better.  Fifteen years of time, as quickly as it goes, leaves a lasting impression on your face and body.  The one benefit to this reunion is that I will be in a room full of people my own age; the only thing separating us will be 40 years of time and how we filled it, although I suspect some people might have filled it with Botox or Restylane, among other things. 

How did I fill 40 years of time?  I filled it with many things I never considered when I was that 18-year old high school graduate, black long hair parted down the middle, looking out of naïve brown eyes, freckled smooth complexion, standing wobbly on trendy 5 inch wedged sandals in 1973.  I know I had dreams of being a famous actress, or singer, or novelist or artist.  I know the four years of college ahead seemed like it would take forever to finish.  I can't even recall those four years now, or how they prepared me for life.  One of the alumni asked for a short bio from us, with a deadline of yesterday to turn it in.  I never even attempted to write one; ironically even though I love to write, bios of myself are the most challenging narratives to capture. 

Honestly, I wouldn’t know what to put in a bio about me that would encapsulate who I am and what I’ve done in the time between high school and now.  I measure my life by the state and accomplishments of my children, mostly.  They are the center of my world, even though at times they frustrate me beyond measure.  Now, being a grandmother, the most important thing about the time I have is spending it with Lexi.  Just a simple day watching her play with her toys, crawling on the floor with her cute little waddling tush, exploring and discovering the space she’s in while she's squealing sounds in her own language is my favorite way of filling time.  That is how I spent my day yesterday– babysitting for my granddaughter, enjoying every second of it, even when she was hysterical from being overtired and teething. 

At 10 months old, Lexi is pulling herself up on everything and letting go for longer amounts of time, just about to walk or run.  Part of me wants her to take those first few steps and the other part wants to hold her back.  The latter part just wants more of those moments that you wish you could put in a bottle so you could open it up anytime to feel your granddaughter sleeping (finally) upon your chest breathing in and out.  Those are the moments where I just want time to stand still. 

Me at 18

The Princess Phenomenon

Back in January, on a cold and grey Sunday morning, Lindsay invited us all to a Princess Breakfast at the skating rink she works at part time.  Kimberly and I attended, along with Lexi’s other grandparents, her other aunt and her two girl cousins.  We each paid the $10 admission for a breakfast of tasteless powdered dry scrambled eggs, greasy bacon and rubbery pancakes- certainly not fit for any princess.  Little girls ranging in age from 6 months to 7 came dressed in a variety of princess attire- either in their favorite Disney princess costume or with a t-shirt with the word “Princess” in sparkly letters printed across their chest. 

After we ate the pitiful food that was served, the lights went out and the music came on to make way for the parade of princesses, escorted by their princes- from Cinderella, to Belle, to Arielle to Snow White, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.  The little girls greeted these so-called princesses, posed for photos with them, danced alongside them and their princes with their mommies or daddies or aunts or grandmas or grandpas.  I just stood there shaking my head and silently protested this fantasy I felt we force upon our daughters and granddaughters.  “Why should they look up to or aspire to be a princess?”  I told myself, “Why not a strong, independent woman like Hillary Clinton, Golda Meir, Eleanor Roosevelt or even Judge Judy.  Of course all of these women are not known for their beauty or raiment, rather for their brains and their ability to selflessly take care of everyone else.  Those are the women I wanted my granddaughter to admire and revere.

I left the princess breakfast feeling disenchanted, to say the least, and even ranted my cynicism to Kimberly in the car ride to Lindsay and Scott’s house.  Certainly I did not relate to being a princess and was intent on influencing my views on my very precious granddaughter, as well, even though her reaction to the whole thing was sheer bewilderment.  After all, my belief about princesses is that they are weak and helpless and need to be rescued. In my fantasy world my granddaughter could win the Nobel Peace Prize, find the cure for cancer or even be the first Jewish female president- a far cry from expecting a prince to save her and eventually determine her future.

Fast forward almost two months later to last week on a cold and grey Saturday morning, when three generations- my mom, Kimberly and I went to Parsippany, New Jersey to the Sheraton Hotel, coincidentally, its architectural structure resembling a castle.  We were attending an event led my friend, a life coach and best-selling author, Lisa Lieberman-Wang.  The headline to her invitation said, Women come to the castle where every princess belongs. 

At first when I saw this, my deeply rooted skepticism about the princess phenomenon kicked in.  “Here we go again,” I said to myself.  On top of that, she posted a description along with her flyer about the event as follows:

WOMEN.... do you remember the fairy tales we were told as a little girl. Disney Princesses said we are all princesses but most of us only wish it to be true now.

But who said it had to be a fairy tale?  What if it could be true that you are a PRINCESS? - one that is loved, admired, cared for and knowing.  How would life be different for you?

If you are not living in your truth and would like to know how to turn it all around., you want to be where all princess belong... the CASTLE. That's right.  We need to go to the castle to get our powers back to rule the kingdoms we were meant to serve.

The irony to this is in the short time I know Lisa, she seemed to fit under the other category of women, those whom I admire- powerful, independent and confident. She is also beautiful, well dressed and refers to her husband, Yardley, as “Handsome”.  Is it possible to be both a princess and like the women I respected?  Now I was bewildered. 

So here I was, with my deep-rooted sardonic beliefs, along with my doubting daughter and insecure mother in a room full of 100 women including my friend Jodi, whose father ironically always made her feel like a princess.  We started by dancing; as a matter of fact, we danced all throughout the day, in between exercises to uncover and release our negative patterns of behavior.  It was exhilarating and cathartic.  But most importantly, I learned more about myself in that day than I ever learned from months of therapy and self-help books.

The first thing I learned was that the beliefs we live with throughout our lives may be untrue.  Lisa wrote the word “BELIEF” on a chart and pointed out the word “LIE” within it.  “Is it possible the beliefs you’ve lived with could be lies you’ve told yourself?” she asked rhetorically.  At the beginning she had us draw a tree and write on the trunk a ‘story’ you have always told yourself- something you believed was true.  The branches were the actions you did based on what was in the trunk of your tree.  What Lisa wanted to show us was that what was in the trunk of our tree was a metaphor of how we live our life.  If we want to change, we need to cut down that tree (not so easy to do) and plant another one with a better belief of who you want to be and how you want to live your life. 

In the trunk of my tree was “I have to take care of everyone.”  Lisa asked for volunteers to come up on stage and I reluctantly raised my hand.  She was trained by Tony Robbins, someone I have followed and admire, so I trusted her implicitly.  In what felt like hours, in front of everyone else, she questioned and probed why I feel the way I do.  At one point she drew a dollar sign and a heart with an equal sign between them. I realized that this signified that I believed that money meant love and that affected the way I felt I needed to take care of everyone.  Lisa’s probing made me recognize that my father never made me feel like a princess because he never ever told me that he loved me.  The way he showed his love was to help me financially, always protect me and do as much as he could for me even when I was an adult.  I was adopting my father’s patterns of behavior on my own family and children, even my friends and colleagues.  The problem with this is that I am angry and resentful about it and becoming a martyr.  It suddenly registered that instead of being a princess with a kingdom, I became a victim with a ‘martyrdom’.

Lisa showed me that I have to let go of my anger because it is not serving me.  I need to change the trunk of my tree to a belief that will produce branches of actions to represent a more positive life.  At the end, she had me do a dance to celebrate the beginning of my positive journey. 

At the opening Lisa had told a story about her Grandma Susan (which happens to be Kimberly’s middle name).  Lisa’s epiphany came from what her Grandma Susan told her when she was at the lowest part of her life.  They were just six simple, yet profound words—“Take care of your mother’s daughter.”   This is what caused Lisa to make a change in her life and led her to help other women.  

I am no longer jaded by the princess phenomenon.  I am discovering that it’s okay to be a princess because it’s not about being rescued by a prince or being weak, it’s about feeling special and being treated that way.  So now, Lexi, I will never tell you that you should not want to be a princess or that being one will diminish the strength and power of your femininity- those were the lies in my beliefs.  Rather, I will model the words of wisdom that another grandma gave years ago….Take care of your mother’s daughter. 

And you will always be a princess just like your mom and your mom’s mom and your mom’s mom’s mom.  And your Aunt Kimberly, too.  Luckily, your daddy calls you 'princess' already.  

If you would like to read Lisa Lieberman-Wang’s book, you can find it on Amazon.  It is called Fine to Fab.   

You can also find out more about Lisa on her website: http://lisaliebermanwang.com/

Cold Winter, Warm Heart

As I sit at my kitchen island writing this today, I can feel the sun warming my shoulder.  It’s a cruel illusion, though, because when I turn around to look out the window, I see masses of white snow on my shrubbery, lining the streets and piled up in high mounds on the sidewalks outside.  This winter is in competition with the worst winter of 1996 and I think it’s winning. 

So even though Valentine’s Day falls right in the middle of my least favorite season, with its ubiquitous red and pink genial hearts and my sweet smelling deep crimson roses on the center of the table, it’s little consolation for the endless snowfall and bitter cold. 

The only comfort I do have during this time of year are the things that warm my heart, such as buying the first Valentine’s Day card for my granddaughter, Lexi, and her first balloon in the shape of a heart.  I loved her reaction to it– not a smile or a delicious, joyous giggle, like the one she had the other day while she watched the dogs play, rather a thoughtful, intellectual puzzlement to something new.  Of course a wide-eyed grin did emerge when she managed to figure out that if she pulled the string, the balloon came down.  She is crawling now, her little tush covered with hearts, speeding across the hardwood floor, only stopping to pull herself up and try to stand on her own.  Just being with her right before going out to Valentine’s dinner with grandpa was all I needed at the end of a cold winter day.

“Nobody can be uncheered with a balloon.” 
― A.A. Milne, Winnie-the-Pooh

What other things warm my heart?  Naturally, going out to dinner with Grandpa Mark was a nice reprieve to the arctic weather we’ve been contending with, along with a surprise visit from my younger daughter, Kim, home for the weekend.  My brief escape to 80-degree Miami last week and a chance to hug my best friend.  And not only buying a Valentine card for my granddaughter and my husband, but also one for my 90 year-old Mom.  And let’s not forget- when the old boiler isn’t enough, my dog, Sonny, cuddles up to me all night and takes the chill right out of my bones. 

So even though I’m counting down the days of winter, the blessings that make my life special- my littlest Valentine– Lexi, my family, good friends and a furry dog to slobber my face with warm sloppy kisses counts so much more.  It even makes the cold of a very rough winter easier to bear. 

  

What warms your heart?