Breaking Bad and other News of the Day

You’ve caught me in a Hope Diamond moment: I’m alone. In the apartment. Windows and blinds wide open—high winds and 30-degree temps be damned. I’m in short sleeves. Showered. Hair brushed. Pink lipstick applied. Perfume generously spritzed. Funny how simple acts can make you feel like, well, yourself.

The kiddos and mom took their first minivan journey–sans support staff—to dine with doctor daddy at the hospital. Walking out the door this morning—-a major under-an-hour-victory—-they looked photo-worthy-adorable in their little cardigans, Mickey Mouse jean jacket and sparkly unicorn purse.

I had mixed feelings about them venturing out alone. For two months I’ve been here, distracting, cajoling, feeding, wiping, singing, anticipating, helping in whatever way I could, but today I experienced my daughter taking charge of her new life as the mom of three under three.

What’s that old expression about cutting the apron strings? Time to let the little chick fly. Even if it means she might fall on her butt. Which, by the way, she didn’t. The kids were great, no problem, she reported.

See, when you’ve been a mom as long as I’ve been, the impulse/instinct to clean your child’s wound and apply a Band-Aid never goes away.

You want to help.

You want to solve.

You want to be the Magical One who can fix anything.

But the day comes when you realize you can’t fix the big problems, and even if you could, it’s not healthy, it’s distracting—for them, for you—and it’s time to move on. 

Which is that mixed feeling thing I mentioned. I’m going to miss trying to be their everything. Then again, I miss the new life I was just getting used to. Freedom. Travel. Unknowns. Whereas this New York City life, living with The Littles, every day, every hour, is predictable: The mood swings. The clean-ups. The food battles. The sleep battles. The giggles. The unconditional love grandchildren have for their grandparents, and vice versa.

Almost every day my granddaughter tells me, “I don’t want you to go back to Cal-i-forn-ia (she pronounces it like Arnold Schwarzenegger).” To which I assure her that I’m not going home yet, despite the Mary Poppins-red luggage looming from atop a storage cabinet, “But one day I will.”

“But I don’t want you to go. I want you to live here, with me and Mama.”

Mama is the endearing name she calls her other grandmother, the one who’s returning from Hong Kong in a few days. She and her husband have been living in the apartment with my daughter and son-in-law, taking care of The Littles while the parents’ work. I’m temporarily staying in their room while they bunk with Hong Kong friends they met at church. Grandpa or YeYe, as he’s called, has been coming over while his wife’s been gone about five days a week to help out in whatever capacity he can. When my daughter goes back to work, both grandparents will resume their full-time caregiver roles.

I’m in an awkward position. When Mama returns, do I leave? Give her and my daughter two months to adjust to the baby and new schedule before she returns to work? Stay until my granddaughter’s birthday at the end of March? Will I upset Mama because I’m in her room? Will leaving early upset my daughter? If I stay, am I overstaying my welcome?

Us moms worry way too much. .

What I know is that up until this point we figured out the Three Under Three Shuffle and today my daughter ventured off alone. She’s living the life she created and wanted. And I’m sitting in the living room finally having a chance to write, feel calm, not prioritizing the dishes or the laundry. That can wait. 

Because no matter what, writing, breathing on the page, having a second cup of Yorkshire tea, and a shortbread cookie, is me transitioning, reclaiming my life, just as my daughter is in the process of reclaiming hers.

She has it, obviously, tougher than me. Thank God she’s a good New York-strong juggler. I don’t know how she does it. But then there’s my 46 years of daily worrying about three kids and now five grandchildren, not to mention fretting about my sister, cousin, ex-husband, nieces, nephews, brother, friends, the environment, the fractured Nation, my former students, teacher colleagues and the children of the world.

You see why I pray?

In the meantime, to escape the question marks, my daughter and I have re-discovered “Breaking Bad” and are binge-watching the series while The Littles nap. We tidy up, make a late lunch, and are lured into Walt’s whacked out world. We can’t believe how much we missed the first time we watched the series. The acting, it’s so good. And the writing, brilliant character development. And why didn’t we hate Walt more the first time around? And love Jesse Pinkman? And since I recently visited New Mexico for a couple of weeks, and my daughter’s “Breaking Bad” Albuquerque Tour when she and her husband drove to New York, we can better appreciate the scenery.

The second time, like spaghetti or stew, tastes better. Maybe that’s why grandmas love being grandmas so much. We get to step back, take a pause like I’m doing right now, pay attention, drink-in the love, be indulgent and supportive, be that soft lap where babies can cry and, from this Mt. Whitney perspective, appreciate the complex art of raising children.

I don’t have all the answers. Although I have strong opinions about the importance of organic foods, nutrition and education. About the best I can offer is a bit of experience, good intentions, and that red carpet bag of love I travel with wherever I go. Oh, and the pixie dust.

“Close your eyes, little ones,” I whisper before singing a lullaby or two.

“Diddle-a-dink-a-dink-a-doo, diddle-a-dink-a-doo, I love you…”

“Think of a thought,” I tell them as I tuck them into bed, “any wonderful little thought.”

I rub their backs and soon enough, after the second chorus of a song I made up and have been singing to wee ones for more than four decades, their little muscles go limp. Safe. At peace. Free to fly to Neverland or wherever else their imagination might take them.

I don’t say it out loud to them but think, “Know I was here, briefly, to guide you, send you on your way. Know you are loved and cherished, just like your mom, even if I’m not always here to tell you so.”