Patience is a virtue.

So.  We are coming to the final days of my daughters pregnancy.  It has been a good one, from what I have been told. It's hard to not be in the same state as she is experiencing all these changes.  But we are all working to get them home, so that is for another post.

As we count down the final days, I find myself more and more impatient.  With everything. It's like nothing will be right until this baby is here.  People driving around me on the way to work are more annoying.  The songs on the radio are pissing me off.  Clients at work are beyond frustrating.  I can't concentrate.  I can't think more than a few minutes ahead of time.  And I'm only the grandmother!  What is my daughter feeling.  It's funny because I was there three times.  And yet, I really don't remember that clearly how I was feeling at that time.  I think it's because once it's over, any frustration or pain or impatience, it's all forgotten.  You have that new life in your arms and you are suddenly thrust into a whole new chapter in your lives.  You are now busy with midnight feedings and diaper changes and laundry (who knew something so small could produce so much laundry!).  Life picks up speed at a rate you really can't comprehend.  Everything is marked by a milestone.  First smile, first word, first step.  Then, God willing, second child.  More smiles, words and steps.  It keeps you racing forward until you wake up one day and find out the last one is moving out.  A whole new chapter.

It's all good.  They are all things that everyone should experience.  The love and the heartache.  It would just be nice to be able to hit a pause button every once in a while.  To be able to take a breathe and really see what's going on around you.  To really be able to take it all in, before it's gone and the next thing has come along.

I realize that as I say this, I am wishing for the baby to be here now.  To race forward to that moment when she comes into the world and opens her eyes.  Ah impatience.  Be careful for what you wish for, it'll be here and gone before you know it!

Bubbe

So, I'm going to be a Grandmother!
A few years ago, I would have been horrified at the thought.   My mother certainly was.  She refused to be called Grandma or Nana.  We finally settled on Marnie, a familiar version of her name Marilyn.  Deadly glares would be visited upon anyone who uttered the "G" word.  It was upsetting at first.  I took it like she had something against my children.  I gradually realized that it was part of a deeper issue that my mother had with regard to her age and self image.  It was sad, because she was a beautiful and talented woman, although I don't think she ever saw herself that way.  As she grew older she did relax a little and I did finally her her identify herself as a grandmother before she died.

I on the other hand had a feeling that my children were never going to leave the house.  So the thought of having another body in the house was slightly overwhelming.  But, as they all do, my children have moved on and I am now ready to have someone to dote on.

So now the big question.  What will the little being call me?  There are certain names that are absolutely out.  Granny, Grammie, Gammie, Gamma.  No.  I don't think of myself as a Nana.  I do really like Grandmummy, but I have been told that it's too stuffy.  Mama G sounds like I should be riding a Harley.  Oma and Nonni are the wrong ethnicity.  Someone suggested Tata, but I think that that sounds more like a stripper name.

Then I remembered Bubbe.  Yiddish, yes, which I am not.  But it is such a great name.  When I hear it I think of warmth and comfort and for some odd reason, food.  All good things for a grandparent to have and to provide, right? I used to think that I would want to be a "cool" grandparent.  But the closer it gets to becoming a reality, I really only want to do one thing.  Get my arms around that baby and hold them close.  And then to get my arms around my daughter and hold her closer and thank her for allowing me the privilege of becoming a Bubbe (or a Grandmummy, that one is not totally off the table yet!)

a funeral

Today we had a funeral. My maternal grandmother, Nana, died at the ripe old age of 103. There were 6 of us attending, my father, my uncle, my brother and sister, my husband and I. When you live to be 103 you don't have any friends left or a lot of family, either. It was a nice enough service. The pastor knew my grandmother and had actually done the service when my grandfather passed away 16 years ago.

We sang a couple of songs, he read some scripture and prayed. We got in the car and drove to the cemetary and said our goodbyes. But in actuality, I think I had said my goodbyes to her years prior. It's hard to see someone you love become diminished like she did. Physically she was fine. Right up until her death, she was only on Tylenol for pain, no IV's, no oxygen, no feeding tube. She went peacefully in her sleep. But she hadn't known who I was for years. Sure, she'd smile when she saw me, but she did that to everyone she saw. She'd also try and take her clothes off or steal shiny jewelry.

The Nana I remember had bright red hair. She loved shoes and purses and make-up. She ate lobster and cooked with lots of garlic and fresh herbs. She had a huge garden in her backyard, which was something because they lived in the city. They grew grapes, strawberries and raspberries. Garlic, carrots, lettuce and tomatoes. And rhubarb, which lined the back fence. She let us drink Coke and had Tang and Space Food Sticks in her pantry. They ran a vacuum and appliance store at the front of their house. I remember walking through it and seeing all the vacuums and sewing machines. My grandfather had a room off to the side where he repaired things. My grandmother had a small post office in one corner of the store for many years. We'd sit up on her high stool and play office, stamping papers and counting change in the drawer. There was a convenience store on their corner that when we were older, we would walk to. We would buy candy buttons and candy necklaces, boxes of Smarties and MacIntosh's Toffee.

She wasn't the typical grandmother, who would bake cookies or read you stories. She was working and when she wasn't, she and my grandfather were golfing or travelling. She went on a game show once in NYC and won a bunch of prizes. She went to Switzerland and Acapulco. They owned a home in Ocala. They were cool.

And she was the inventor of the May goodbye. The goodbye would start, usually in the kitchen with hugs and kisses and promises to come back and see each other again soon. Then it would gravitate out to the living room where there would be more hugs, more talking. It would then move on to the door, where my Nana would take my mothers hand and press money or some other goodie into it, telling her to just take it, while my mother would say "no Mama, I can't", but she always would. It would then move to the porch and down to the driveway, before we would finally all be in the car, backing out of the driveway while they waved from the porch. It was a long goodbye. But never final, always with the promise of seeing each other again.

Like today. It's been a long goodbye, but I'll see you again Nana.

103

One hundred and three. That's the age of my maternal grandmother. She has been in a nursing home for the past 15 years. She went in shortly after my grandfather did. He went because he had a stroke. I remember being there when my mother told her that he has passed away. I was sure that she would be right behind him. But she lingered. Well, I guess you can't really call in lingering when she has outlived him by 16 years. She is frail and weak. She doesn't talk and hasn't eaten in the last couple of days. I'm guessing it will only be a matter of time. My prayer is that she will go in her sleep, peacefully and in no pain. Isn't that how we'd all like to go.

Seeing her started me thinking about my mother when she passed away. That was 8 years ago. Man, it's crazy how fast time goes by. She was in the hospital for the last 18 days of her life, the last 10 in hospice. Her room was at the end of the hall, right next door to the hospice lounge. The lounge had a couple of couches and some tables and chairs, a TV and a small kitchen area with a sink, mini fridge and a microwave. My father, sister and I basically moved in and took over the place. We rearranged the lounge. My father bought new lamp shades for the lamps. I slept on the couch, while he slept in the chair next to her bed. I'd wake up in the morning and go sit with her, while he took a shower and went downstairs to have something to eat. We were with her around the clock. My brother came when he could. My uncle spent a few days there as well. My husband brought Chinese food from Fort Erie one night. My brother brought Anchor Bar chicken wings another. We lived there. The thought of leaving her there alone was unbearable to me. I felt that it was the least I could do to stay and help take care of her. There were times when she was lucid, but she was in a lot of pain so they had her pretty heavily medicated. We spent a lot of time sitting around her bed, telling stories. I got to witness my fathers love for her. She was forever kicking her socks off and her feet were always cold. He'd stand at the foot of her bed and put her feet under his shirt, against his stomach. It was one of the sweetest things I've ever seen. And he'd talk to her, reminding her of all the great things that they had done in their life together. They didn't wait for tomorrow, they did things today.

The night she died, my sister and I were with her. My father, uncle and brother were in the lounge watching something on the television. She had been pretty quiet, but she became very alert, looked off into the corner of the room and then took her last breath. Just like that. One breath in, alive. One breath out, gone. I counted it a great privilege to be with her for that. She saw me into the world and I saw her out. She was 67.

And probably, in the next few days, it will happen for my grandmother. Just like that. This is just a temporary life. Even if you live it for 103 years, it doesn't last forever. We need to make it count. We need to do great things now and not wait until later. We need to remind ourselves of the wonderful things that we have in our lives. We need to connect to the people around us, the people who love us and tell them how much they mean to us. Here, I'll go first. I love you my friends and family. You make me a better person, you put up with all my nonsense. You have my back. I am grateful for all of you. See, that's how you do it. Just like that.

time

I make really great rice krispie treats. I'm not bragging, I really do. Ask anyone. You would think something as plain as a rice krispie treat wouldn't be very hard to make, but you'd be mistaken. The trick is not to let the butter burn and to melt the marshmallows over low heat, just to the point where there are about a quarter of them still whole. Turn the heat off and beat them with a wooden spoon. The residual heat in the pan will be enough to melt the rest. Stir in the rice krispies and you are all set. But it takes time. You can't rush it or you'll end up with rice krispies that turn hard the next day. And who wants that?

I find that I have no problem being patient while waiting for butter to melt, but not so much with other things. The person at the red light ahead of me, who hesitates a little to long when it goes green. The person ahead of me in the grocery store, rifling through her purse looking for a coupon or change or a pen or her bonus card. Or my children when they take longer than I think they should to do something. As badly as I feel when I make remarks under my breath to the strangers who annoy me, my heart aches when I realize I have hurt my kids.

After going through all the firsts of a new baby; steps, words, sleeping through the night, it's easy to kind of gloss over the firsts they continue to go through. The fact is that we all continue to go through firsts in our lives. By definition, a first is something that we haven't experienced yet. So there should be some excitement attached to going through it. And there should be some leeway given to getting it right the first time. But the older you get, the less leeway you are given. I know that when I get the 'eye roll' from someone who is explaining something to me for the first time, I want to pop them one. Give me a chance for pete's sake. And yet, I think I do that to my kids. When what I should be doing is just giving them a chance.

And a rice krispie treat.

rude

When I was growing up, my parents taught me how to be polite. How to say please and thank you. How to sit up straight at a dining room table, keeping my elbows off it and my napkin in my lap. How to properly answer a phone and take a message. How to address those who were older than me. It seems this is a lost art.

Working in an medical office environment, I deal with a lot of different people. Old and young, rich and poor, all different ethnicities. And so many of them absolutely rude. Whether it is rolling their eyes when they are asked for their insurance card or throwing paperwork back at me when asked to fill it out. Now I realize that paperwork is a pain in the ass. I know that you have been coming here for a million years. But what you don't seem to realize is, I have a job to do. I have been asked by my employer, your doctor, to take care of certain things at the desk, so he doesn't have to. So things get billed properly through your insurance. So we have the correct information to send to your primary doctors. So you ultimately get the correct and prompt treatment.

It's what you came here for and it's what I am being paid to provide. So when you come through the front door at nine o'clock in the morning, looking for a fight, it makes my life very difficult.

I think most of us would agree that the health care system in our country leaves a lot to be desired. Insurance companies keep raising rates, which cause doctors to have to do the same. Technology gets introduced to help move the process along and hopefully make things easier on all ends, but that costs money too. You may have to provide information you think is not necessary, but that's not what your insurance company says. We have to play by their rules in order to see you. There is always someone further up the ladder calling the shots. But we are all just trying to do our jobs to the best of our ability.

So the next time you feel like you have to roll your eyes or make some crappy remark, take a second and think about who you are talking to. Just some poor woman who is trying to do her job and earn a living so she can go to her doctor and fill out forms and show her insurance card. We are all just trying to get through our day. It seems to me if we can be a little more civil to each other it would make the day go that much better.

focus

When my kids were in school, we spent lots of nights in the high school auditorium for band and choir concerts. One of the first choir concerst I remember going to was when my oldest daughter was 6th grade. They had the middle school choirs singing, but they also brought in the high school groups. I think it was to show the parents that if the kids stick with this, it gets better. A LOT better. The songs the concert choir sang brought tears to my eyes. They were wonderful. I could not wait for my kids to be in it.

Now I realize that a school concert is not like going to the philharmonic. You don't have to pay to see it. You don't have to get dressed up and drive downtown to the concert hall. But shouldn't you at least have a similar amount of respect for the performers? It never ceases to amaze me how rude some people were at those concerts. Letting their younger children make a lot of noise and run up and down the aisles. Parents carrying on conversations with each other. This always occurred just when my childs group was taking the stage.

Now fast forward a few years. My kids are all out of public school. But my sisters kids are working their way through. Concert night. Same deal. Only now you have people in the audience with their smartphones and electronic games. Tell me, what kind of society have we become when we can't unplug from our toys for an hour? What kind of children are we raising who can't sit quietly for an hour? It seems that if there isn't a constant barrage of noise and entertainment being thrust at them, they immediately go into meltdown stage.

I have come to a place in my life where those lingering moments of quiet are so lovely. And neccessary! Don't get me wrong, if I leave the house without my iPhone, I feel naked. But there are times when it needs to be put away and I need to be able to focus on something else. Like a group of kids who have a desire to sing. Or play the oboe. I wonder sometimes how much longer that will be the case. As this generation grows up, will they be able to sit still long enough to enjoy a concert in a music hall? Or worse, will there be anyone there playing?

ailments

I have developed acid reflux. I never had a problem eating anything. Now I do. I guess I get the spicy foods and acidy foods. But sometimes it's something seemingly bland. Even though I take medicine for it, I still find myself sitting up in bed at night for a while. My father had the same problem. So maybe it's partly genetic. But it's also age. My joints ache. My eye sight and hearing aren't what they used to be. My skin is dry in places and scaly in others. And I have heartburn. I don't stress about it. I could make better choices about what I eat or what time I'm eating and that would no doubt help the situation. But for the most part, I continue on the same path I have been for most of my adult life.

It's hard to give up the things that we are familiar with, whether that is a food or a habit. Those things that we associate with our youth, we try to hold on to for as long as we can. When you are young, it feels like it will last forever. Time has no real meaning because there is so much of it ahead of you. But the older you get, the more time you see behind you instead of in front of you, the more you grasp at those things that draw you back to your youth. Some of us let go of these things easier than others. Most of us think we will know when we have to give something up and we will be able to make that choice. But the truth is that we won't. We are able to fool ourselves into thinking that we still know what is best for us. I still see well enough to drive. I can still climb a ladder to clean out the gutters or reach something from a shelf in the garage. I can still eat pizza and chicken wings at seven o'clock at night and not feel the repercussion from it.

It would be helpful if we were able to realize this and make the necessary changes. It would take a lot of pressure off our children who end up having to do the dirty work. But it's such a control issue and for the most part, we as humans, don't like to give up control. Especially of our own lives. And yet most of us eventually get to a place where we have no control. Where someone else has stepped in to make the decisions. And we can choose to go willingly or we can drag our feet and bitch and moan the whole way. I think the challenge is to go willingly without a loss of dignity. There is a fine balance there, that takes understanding and patience on both sides. Something that is hard to achieve, no doubt, but is the most gratifying if you can do it. Having seen examples in my own family of people who have not done this well, I endeavor to try and be more gracious about it when my time comes. In the meantime, I endeavor to continue to eat pizza. I'll just try to do it earlier in the day. And when I don't, I thank God for Prilosec!

Success!

Success at last! After a week of being taunted by a very clever mouse, he has been dispatched! Thanks to the husband who carefully set traps around in my car. I tried but snapped the crap out of my fingers and gave up the thought of ever having a nice quiet ride into work ever again.

Now come the hard questions. Did it hurt when he died? Does he have a family waiting for him? Why was he so cute? Aren't they supposed to be vile and disgusting? It makes it easier to kill them when they are. Why am I feeling badly about killing a mouse? I'm going to make a big jump here, bear with me. I think it's empathy. We can argue until the cows come home about whether the mouse had feelings. Some would say that animals can't feel, that humans are the only creatures intelligent enough to feel. But I disagree. My best friend growing up had a yellow lab named Sarah. We would catch her looking at herself in the mirror in my friends bedroom and when we called her on it, she would crinkle up her ears and drop her head and you could see embarrassment on her face. I have friends whose cats ignore them when they've been gone for a few days. They are mad that they were left alone. I watched a video segment about a young leopard who makes her first kill. It was a baboon. When the cat takes the dead baboon up into a tree it realizes that there is a day old baby clinging to it's dead mother. Instead of killing the baby too, the leopard picks the baby up and starts to lick it and cuddle up with it. With cameras everywhere and YouTube showing all the videos that people take, you don't have to look far for examples in nature of empathy.

Unfortunately, they are getting harder to find in society. Heinz Kohut said, empathy is the capacity to think and feel oneself into the inner life of another person. I can put myself into the "life" of the mouse in my car. But how many times do I put myself into the lives of the people around me? I could argue that the mouse is easy to be empathetic towards. For one, he's a mouse. So he'll never disappoint me. And so often the people around me can. But what kind of relationship is it if there isn't some disappointment. Some sadness. That all leads to growth and in turn better relationships. The one with the mouse is static. Especially since the mouse is dead. So I take that thought away from this whole ordeal. To try to be more connected to the people around me and less so to the things that can't react back to me.

RIP Ethan"the mouse" Hunt.

Eek, a mouse!

So I'm driving in my car the other day and at a stop light I look down and I see these little black things on the floor. My first thought is that I must have eaten an everything bagel in the car at some point and gotten poppy seeds on the floor. Logical, right?

Roll forward to Monday. I am eating toast in the car on the way to work.

I know, you are sensing a pattern here. I have never been a morning person. I have no problem laying in bed until noon. It doesn't hurt that we have a really, really great bed. I have the alarm set for 6:50 am and then a second one set for 7:00 am. I hit the first one. I let the second one go as it is tuned to the radio and not an annoying buzzer noise. I listen to the headlines, the traffic and the weather, then I turn it off and turn on the TV. Good Morning America. I pick up my phone and check email, Facebook and Twitter. I check The Daily Puppy. I check the national news and play a quick game of Word Warp or Words with Friends. Usually by this time it is 7:30. I roll over and re-fluff my pillow. Look out the window and wonder why I wasn't born into an incredibly rich family, where a maid would be approaching my room right now, to pull back the curtains, bring me a tray with tea and fresh croissants and OJ and then go run my bath. I ponder this for another 10 minutes and then I curse myself for again waiting so long to get up. So now I'm late, plus I have to pee like crazy. After my morning ablutions, I slap on my makeup, get dressed, run downstairs and throw some bread in the toaster. Grab something for lunch and then jump in the car and head to work. It's not the best system, but I kind of have it down so it's what I go with.

So Wednesday I notice, on the paper towel that I had carried my toast on when I got into the car and had left on my passenger seat, no longer has toast crumbs on it. It has mouse turds on it. One corner is chewed on and there is a pee stain. I guess I should be grateful that he peed on the paper towel and not on the leather seats. But regardless, I have a mouse in my car. And is it in my car all the time? Or does he sneak in at night while the car is in the garage, eat my toast crumbs and then leave in the morning? It is what I wanted to believe.

So out come the traps. The are "humane" traps that don't cut the thing in half when the mouse springs it. I load them with peanut butter and put 2 of them in my car.

Thursday morning goes like this: see above paragraph for morning ritual, coat on and plastic bag in hand to pick up deceased mouse(s). I cautiously approach my car and open the door. Trap is where I left it, no mouse. I check the second trap and find the same. When I pick them up I notice that there is not a lick of peanut butter on either one. Crap. I mean, yes crap. There is more mouse crap in the car, too.

Thursday night: Husband has purchased old-fashioned wooden mousetraps with snappy metal spring on them. I lather them up with peanut butter and put them in the car, almost snapping off my fingers several times before I get them set.

Friday morning goes like this: see above.....caution has gone out the window at this point. I open the car door. Unsprung trap. No dead mouse. And not a speck of peanut butter! What the hell kind of mouse is this? I picture some Mission Impossible type set up with the mouse repelling down from above the trap using all kinds of equipment to allow it to know how much downward pressure it is applying to the trap. This is a friggin' genius mouse!

So now we arrive at Friday night. Traps are set again. This time I have really crammed them with peanut butter, so that little rodent bastard will have to really work to get it all off. I have also set them at the lightest possible setting. This mouse will have to be made of air to not set this trap off! So now I wait.

However, if this doesn't work, is anyone interested in buying a slightly used VW Beetle? It's pretty clean, except for some poppy seeds on the floor.

Shoplifting

So, apparently there is a difference between being robbed and being shoplifted from. It's true. I found out the hard way. A couple of years ago I was asked to call the police because we were being "robbed". So I did. After a few minutes on the phone with a very nice police officer, a swat team descended on our building, busting through the front door, guns drawn. Everyone was on the floor. They swept the building in search of the offenders. Long story short, it was very scary and pretty chaotic. Come to find out, if you say you are being robbed the police assume there are weapons involved. If, on the other hand, someone walks into your store, picks up some merchandise and puts it in their pocket and walks out, that is just shop lifting and they won't send a SWAT team to your store. Hmmm. You learn something new every day.

Fast forward to today and we are being robbed, er, I mean shoplifted from again. Even with big signs all around saying that the building is equipped with 24 hour video taping. Some idiot comes in and walks out with stuff that doesn't belong to him. Police still come, but not as fast. Take my statement and give us a card with a case number on it and tell us to call if anything else happens. Here's what happens. It throws the whole workplace into a tizzy. Some of us are totally freaked out about it. Some seem like they couldn't care less. Everyone talks about it and rehashes what happened and what they saw and what could have been done to prevent it. Truth is not much. If someone is bold enough to come into a business that is bustling with people and cameras and still try and steal something, there probably isn't much you could do to stop them. The fact that he didn't have a gun or knife is a blessing. The loss of merchandise is a small price to pay for the safety of customers and staff, however frustrating it is to have stuff stolen. It does suck that people, for whatever reason, feel that they have a right to take what doesn't belong to them. But that type of behavior dates back to the garden of Eden, I guess. Besides, it will give us something to talk about for the next week!

Grandchildren

Grandchildren.

Something I never thought I would want and now, strangely, I desperately crave. Seems like all my friends are becoming grandparents. It is amazing to me how fast I have gotten to this stage in my life. I remember like it was yesterday, turning around in the minivan to look in the back seat and seeing three little faces staring back at me. At the time I remember feeling shocked at how fast I had reached that milestone. Wasn't it just a couple of years before that I had gotten married. And just a short time before that, graduated high school. My first job. My first car. My first boyfriend. My first dog. My first...

No one tells you when you have your first baby how soon you'll see her go through her firsts. How soon she'll move away and get married. If they did, how differently we would treat life. We spend so much time focused on the 'stuff' of life. A job, a house, a car. After the past few years of seeing family members die too young, you change your opinion on what really matters. Family, friends, love. Those are the things that really matter. Those are the things we should be working on, day in and day out, to make stronger. To make sure that those people around us, the ones who really matter, know how much we love them.

I'll turn 50 this year. I can't believe how fast that has gone. I have lived more than half my life already. My prayer and hope is that I will spend the rest of my days focused on what really matters. My husband and children. My friends and family. And, god willing, grandchildren.