Ordinary Greatness

Hope and sparkling crystals and all things magical and misty-eyed are Queen Melancholy’s cousin. Like George of the Jungle, I swing between the two, between longing for Kauai’s turquoise waters and Cambria’s soul-fortifying coast to the anticipation of missing the icy-slick-sidewalk-skating rink of Winter in New York with The Littles and Co. 

Life in Big Apple Baby Central isn’t glamorous. In fact, it’s ultra-routine, and goes something like this: 

A Day in the Life

• 6:50 a.m. wakeup (I’m still not synced with EST)
• Brew Yorkshire Gold tea for me, Nespresso for my daughter 
• Curate the 2-and 3-year-old’s breakfast, something like organic Greek yogurt with honey, egg whites, apple, and buttered toast   
• Cuddle newborn (who in a week will be classified as an official baby) 
• Walk Big Little to preschool  
• Play trucks with Middle Little, more cuddles with Newborn Little 
• Assemble and consume breakfast for us adults 
• Play some more, unload and load the dishwasher, do laundry, play mermaid make-believe, and on non-weathery days, go for a walk around Forest Hills or to the neighborhood park to slide and swing and interact with dwellers outside our dwelling 

Naptime is 12:30 so we rush back, snack, read, sing, then Middle Little snoozes for a couple of hours.

At 1ish, Big Mom and daughter watch TV, usually something mindless like “Millionaire Makeover” now that we finished “Breaking Bad” Round Two, then cobble together a mostly healthy lunch, and relax while one or both of us holds Infant Little. 

At 2:30, TV goes off, Big Little gets picked up from school while Big Mom holds Infant Little. About 3ish, Middle Little wakes up—sometimes whiny, sometimes dashingly joyous—-and we watch 20 minutes of Disney+, eat snacks and play mermaids or paint or Playdough or truck or Dance Party or walk to the library or read or play with building blocks and trains. 

So it goes, before dinner and post dinner; play, read, bath time, more reading, songs, and sleep by 7:30 for Middle Little and 8 p.m. for Big Little. Us adults stay up, try to clean, read, watch mindless TV, play checkers, before crashing into various states of slumber in between Infant Little’s sleep cycle, which is choppy, but good, considering he’s only 2-months old.

The Littles have about 6 per hour x 12 waking hours highs and lows throughout the day which us adults monitor, intervene and let figure out because that’s how we learn. Let’s just say we do our fair share of reverse psychology problem-solving, hugging, and wiping away tears. Thankfully, the giggles, tickles and grins outweigh the scowls and outcries,  “He’s not listening!” I do my best to memorize my wee grandchildren’s comical and endearing conversations.

“Millie,” says Hudson, concerned that his sister is hurt. “Here’s Horsey,” he says, offering her her favorite toy.

“Hudson is crying, Grandma. Go get him,” insists his protective mere 1.5 year-older sister. 

The next minute they ‘re snatching and yelling and tattle-tailing and learning how to be less Bam-Bam from “The Flintstones” and more “let’s find a compromise” middle school counselor. Good luck with that. By far, the worst thing I remember about parenting were the fights. Drove me absolute bonkers. I’m pretty sure my generation of parents invented the Time Out. For 1950s/60s kids like me there was no such thing as negotiation between adult and child; we were spanked or got the belt. Fear and the threat of a sore butt subdued, but never squelched, my cheekiness. 

Anyway, here in Babyland, twice a month we do a Costco run, and several days a week we walk to Trader Joe’s. Doctor’s appointments and special trips, like going to “Disney on Ice” or seeing Josh Groban in “Sweeney Todd”, break up the routine and remind us that we’re in New York, New York. It’s a hell of a town!  This week—I can’t wait—-my daughter and I are taking a cooking class in Manhattan. The How to Make Croissants class was a Christmas gift from my daughter. Time together doing adult things is such a treat, as is learning something new and attempting to bake something decadent. We’ll tote along The Official Baby because he’s the easiest-going of the lot of us. As long as his basic needs are met—food, warmth, sleep, clean diapers, and love—he’s a champ. Really, I think he’s the best baby I’ve ever encountered. Just saying. And the cutest. 

Now I know there’s a point to me sharing all this  (I blame sleep deprivation). So here goes a feeble attempt to untangle my thoughts:

The other day I checked out “A Year in Poetry” from the Rego Park Library. I crave poetry and have missed the tomes I keep in my van and trapped in the storage unit back in Redondo Beach. I figured that if I started reading a poem a day it would activate dormant brain cells and revive my “being present” pretense while jamming with the kiddos. 

Today’s poem by David Ignatow, a poet known for his writing about the common man, seemed completely unrelated to my life until I read it a third time. It’s titled “On the Death of Winston Churchill”:

Now should great men die

in turn one by one

to keep the mind solemn

and ordained, 

the living attend in dark clothes

and with tender weariness

and crowds at television sets

and newsstands wait

as each man’s death sustains a peace.

The great gone, the people

one by one

offer to die.

At first, I thought this poem was an ode to Winston Churchill, concluding that Ignatow’s musings had nothing to do with me; The Greats leave behind something great. Me, I’m barely funeral-worthy. 

Then the more I pondered the poet’s unadorned words and line breaks, the more I thought about the “people” left behind, how grand they were to offer to give up their own lives. But that’s what we do, don’t we, for the people we love? We set aside self for those who need us. 

Then I thought, wouldn’t it be cool, instead of honoring the deceased with testimonials, instead, celebrate those who loved, valued, and supported The Great One; kind of a reverse funeral. Those on the crest of getting old-old—-or well before—could throw a party and tell everyone—family, friends, colleagues, and those who have supported and inspired you—how much they mean to you. Then, when it’s time to check out, you’d do so with no regrets. 

“The great gone, the people

one by one

offer to die.”

What I’ve come to realize during this, my longest stint yet in New York, is that amidst the ordinary, the day-to-day, one might even say the mundane, is where true Greatness resides. It may not be sound-bite or statue-worthy, but to me greatness consists of those tiny, sparkly moments—-the cuddles, the bedtime songs, the resolution of a misunderstanding—reminding those of us attuned to wonder just how blessed we are. Truly, to have the opportunity to live this life, to piece together the puzzle, to let go of the ball of angora yarn I’ve clutched my entire life, is a gift. To live long enough to see where the messy, twisting, magical, traveling yarn ends up is just like the bedtime story my daddy used to tell me, and now I recite to my Littles.

“Once upon a time, in a rose-covered cottage tucked alongside a stream in a dewy forest, lived a beautiful princess/prince whose name was …” As the story progresses, there’s the supporting cast, dramatic cliffs and valleys, and in the end, the protagonist lives happily ever after. This, along with a now-mandatory back rub, makes for the sweetest dreams, I’m told.

I might very well die a cubby, wanna-be, inconsequential, human woman, but to my Littles, I’m Winston Churchill, and they’re my peeps which makes life far from ordinary.