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Lucky Enough
The sun warms my shoulders as the ocean re-charges my gaze as the gregarious Snow White singing birds kerchief my ears as teeming black tea stimulates my soft-focus high school yearbook portrait ala 1970s brain.
Adjust the lens and it becomes clear, sharp, bursting with vibrant colors and wind-wafting scents.
I am a guest.
If you could be here instead of there, you’d see what I mean. My worn turquoise camp chair. My smiley face ceramic whale cup. The bed of mustard yellow flowers patched between dewy Irish green grass. The roaring ocean that sounds like traffic as it crushes the shoreline with a force only God is capable of. The Aaron Copland harmony of Nature and silence.
I am a guest.
Sunrise. And it’s warm enough to sit outside in a robe. Think. Not think. Write. Not write. Dive into reading Kristin Hannah’s “The Women” or set it down for another time. Look and look and look, take it all in. Or take a nap. Wipe the canvas clean. No plans. Plans. I could sit in this exact spot all day and be content, at peace, wanting for nothing more than to share this feeling, this place, this sense of tranquility, this belonging, with others. Or just keep it to myself.
Yesterday, my friend Julie and I were having lunch, getting real, laughing, crying, as we always do, when I confessed, I’ve been struggling. I’m here, I’m there. Am I on the right track? Did I make a mistake? Have I screwed up my daughter who feels like she has no place to land when she visits California since I sold the family home two years ago this July? Should I buy a new place? Rent? Keep traveling?
Good friends rarely tell you what to do. They listen, nod their head, ask questions that may lead you toward the answer you seek.
A point worth noting: Julie and I L-O-V-E the Lord, having opened our heart to God when we were in elementary school; many of our conversations are grounded by faith, not the preachy, Bible-thumping, let me convert you, faith, but a faith that originates from a place where you know, what you know, what you know, little kid giddy sincerity. We’ve both experienced God in ways that are real and profound.
Dear Julie, listening to my incessant ping pong ball flurry of where-should-I-be thought-bubble wanderings, patiently lets me ramble on and on and on. She never says, “Let’s pray,” nor does she proclaim Scripture. Again, she just listens in her beautiful Buddha way, trusting that her buddy will eventually figure things out.
“I am a guest,” I told her, saying out loud a line I wrote in my most recent blog.
As you get older, this notion becomes an encroaching, theme song reality. It’s sad and it’s glorious. It’s beautiful because of my increasing awareness that I’ve been gifted this precious moment to absorb, reflect upon, and feel grateful. It’s sad because it’s taken me so long to fully embrace, “This isn’t a dress rehearsal,” truism.
I am a guest.
Being a guest doesn’t mean you are rootless, it means that everything looks, sounds, feels, and tastes provocative, refreshing, sour, extra sweet, strange, and familiar. It’s new, it’s old; sometimes you want to be alone and a few hours later you want to be with people. As a guest, hugs become extra meaningful.
Now that I’m a professional tourist, I’m acutely aware of legacy and think deeply about what I wish to leave behind, while at the same time craving new adventures and seeking a new path.
For 67 years I settled, responded, acquiesced to Life’s circumstances. While I always had a clear vision of the life I wanted, Life Happened. I can honestly say that I made the best choice at the worst time and made the worst decisions at—as viewed from today’s vantage point—the best times.
I was young and now I’m old. Not as old as those grey-haired souls I stood next to in my high school newspaper’s 50 Year Reunion black and white photo. No, I’m not that old because my 50-year reunion isn’t until June and my friend Julie’s two-years-away-from 50th wedding anniversary celebratory cruise is still in the planning stages. But according to the wrinkles around my eyes and sagging jowls, I’m getting there—old, that is—fast.
The aging process is interesting—really. It can ignite heightened awareness, i.e., there’s no time to waste, no time to fret about paths taken, only those ahead, as in today, this moment, because anything could happen, and it does, so it matters, everything matters, because the clock is ticking.
Thus, the metanoia, I am a guest.
After a good night’s sleep in my cozy apartment-on-wheels, Bonnie Doon, waking up to the sunrise, sitting here with this sweeping ocean view, in the midst of this movie about the twists and turns of a 67-year-old woman who gave up everything only to discover she had everything, here’s what occurred to me: by divesting, I invested in a life that brings clarity even as it continues to churn and sometimes stall.
While the world is bonkers, I elect to feel settled, while not settling, if that makes any sense. I doubt my 17-year-old self would understand, much less listen to this advice; the canvas was far too vast and promising to foresee the twists and turns I’d later face.
My entire life I wondered, wanted, waited, cajoled, forced, made happen, and now I don’t have to.
But then, I never did.
Really, not really
Home, not really. South Bay, not really. Schedule, not really. Ambition, not really. Stress, not really. Anger, frustration, blame, regrets, not really.
I’m here, sitting on a camp chair overlooking the blustery sea in my sister and cousin’s unfinished Palos Verdes Estates home, a place I might very well hang my hat when not traveling, but for now, keeping it light and loose and ready for the next adventure.
The calendar’s already almost booked. I have a few gap weeks here and there to catch up, take a breath, re-group, re-kindle, plant my feet, do the laundry, hug my dear ones, get a tan, read a book, do my taxes—write. I’m going to be a busy lady through July and am presently securing plans for August and the great open road come Fall.
At the end of the month I’m flying back to NYC to surprise Millie on her 4th birthday, then when I get back we’re going to Kauai for a week. In April, I’m headed to the Central Coast for a couple of weeks, then I’ll be back to take my Star Wars-mad grandson to Disneyland’s May the 4th Be With You celebration. Later in the month I’ll fly to Orlando to spend time with my brother and sister-in-law and hang out at Disney World for a bunch of days. June is filled with camping with the grandsons, our yearly week in Mammoth, then back to New York and we’ll jump on a plane and head to Oklahoma for a five-day Fourth of July family reunion. All my grandchildren, myself, and daughter will fly to NY for 2.5 weeks and return to L.A. at the end of July in time to celebrate my son’s birthday.
I’ll most likely hang out in the South Bay until the boys go to school, then I’ll likely start my Big Fall trip toward the end of August. I’m thinking Canada, British Columbia, then veering East to see the Fall colors. None of that is set in stone, but it sounds like a real adventure. I had such an amazing solo journey last year traveling along the Pacific Coast and the Southwest, I might even replicate that.
In November, I’ll fly back to New York and cheer on my daughter as she runs the NYC Marathon, then possibly stay to celebrate my two grandsons’ birthdays.
Crazy. A whole year loosely planned, with plenty of space for adjustments.
I’m kind of that girl: a planner; I like my clothes organized, my van clean and in order, and my year blocked out.
Since I retired three years ago come June and sold my home of almost 30 years two years ago, my life has been somewhat scattered. I’ve lived a little here and there. I’m a guest wherever I go. It’s good. It’s what I signed up for. But only now am I getting the hang of it.
Last week, my big news was the big edit: I halfed my storage unit and shaved about $200 a month in fees. I moved what remains of my household belongs, memories, books, kids toys, two pieces of furniture—a grandfather’s clock from my parents and the hope chest my mom gifted me—by myself, with exception of the furniture two Luggers helped me with. It was an overwhelming task, both physically and emotionally. But now that it’s done, it feels like I can stand up straighter. It lighted a burden.
Junk. I intend to go back to the new unit and take out a box a week and determine if I need to keep it or chuck it. I have a huge box filled with my writing spanning back to when I was in the third grade. I have another box containing my art journals. I still have two boxes of high school memories, and another huge box filled with newspaper and magazine stories I wrote when I was a journalist. I almost tossed them on the most recent move, but then I saw the old clips from when I interviewed Brian Wilson of the Beach Boys and I couldn’t part with the yellowed words quite yet.
I haven’t looked at most of the boxed stuff in the unit for decades, yet it is hard to dump. When I told my tax accountant about my dilemma, he said it’s vanity. My ego. I denied it. But then I realized he was right. My past life is a way I validate that I was once of value. These days, what am I? An older woman with wrinkles, a double chin, and a chubby mid-section. I was once kinda cute, filled with promise and a bright future and I have the high school yearbook to prove it. “Grandma,” my precocious grandson said when he saw a black and white photo, “what happened?”
Excellent question.
When you get older, who are you? Your past? Your present? Your future?
Do your ideas matter?
Do you matter?
The contents of the boxes remind me that I once had societal value.
Now, it’s hard to know.
Looking back. Looking forward. Looking deep inside, is a truth, a reality, all of us must eventually come to terms with; we’re not that big a deal; we’re temporary.
We don’t have to make a mark, earn a ton of money, or have a YouTube channel with a kazillion followers. Not really. Super famous people, people who’ve led incredible, impactful lives, get old and become redundant. Life moves forward, people move on, and there you are, left in the dust to ponder the point of it all.
Which is delicious and wonderful and such an important, pulse-taking milestone. I can look back and say, “You did it. Good on you, Janet.”
The Great Next is about clearing the deck, preparing, letting go of, and being grateful that my blood pressure is normal, I’m medicine-free and, following my annual doctor’s check up yesterday, I played pickle ball with my grandsons and LOVED IT. Yeh, the old gal still has it, as long as she has the youngins to run after the waffle balls she missed.
Life IZ Good, indeed. The skies are clear and tomorrow promises to be a stunning Southern California Winter’s day.
Home, not really, but to quote Babe’s farmer dad, it’ll do, pig, it’ll do.
A Whole New World
Waking up to snow when you’re a native Southern Californian, not in your own bed, but in the bed you’ve modified to make your own, feels as if I’m gazing out the window of Apollo 13: the glistening, marshmallow puffs of new fallen snow on a street that’s normally bustling with rush hour traffic, but today looks like an illustration from Millie’s favorite story, “Frozen”, is straight out of a fairy tale.
Today, we’re hanging out, cuddling under grandma’s fluffy, dryer-warmed, lavender-scented white blanket, reading books, watching movies, and enjoying each other’s company before I venture back to L.A. where, I hear, it’s been especially gorgeous of late.
This is my first full-time East Coast winter. According to meteorologists, this year’s snowfall ties with last’s for being the mildest winter on record. Since mid-November, it’s only snowed four days in the Forest Hills area. It’s strange how quickly I’ve adapted to the cold; now a sunny 40-degree day feels like summer. My sister jokes that when I get back I’ll have to wear tank tops.
Doom and gloom forecasters warned New Yorkers that the first leg of this week’s Mega Storm 2024 was sure to be a doozy. They even cancelled NYC schools fearing deadly road conditions. But looking out the window, the cement sill inhabited by a pair of heat-seeking doves, it appears the weather guys got it wrong—-again.
But then there’s a lot of that going on these days, being wrong, that is.
Fear-mongering, dogma-inciting, flame-fanning, not considering the “other” side, is scary, as in 1930-40s Nazi Germany scary. Can it get any worse? History’s pretty clear about that. The consequences of polarization makes me want to bury my head under the covers.
Mostly, I do my best to avoid the news, but still, it’s hard not to freak out about all that’s wrong.
My brain, my heart, need space to find the good when everything seems so bad.
This trip, what I’ve been keenly aware of is NYC’s inclusivity. You see positive messages on the subways, in museums, in murals painted beneath defunct train tracts: You belong. Here, you can be anything you want; you’re accepted, but more than that, included. You have a place at the table. In NYC, there are places where you can dine, shop, worship, peruse TV, radio stations, and newspapers, that represent your culture and values. Here, you’re never far from your original home—-wherever in the world that may be. Even Alexander Hamilton in the musical “Hamilton” extolled New York City’s virtues when he sang, “In New York you can be a new man.” You can feel at home while making your new home.
It’s true. I doubt any other city, or nation in the entire world for that matter, could boast such a claim. That’s something to celebrate.
Saying that, I know that inclusivity is a threat to some Americans who would prefer a return to “See Dick Run” 1950s suburbia. But if only, for a second, they’d be willing to immerse themselves in the colors, textures, shapes and sounds of America’s patchwork quilt; I think they might discover being “different” isn’t to be feared, it’s what makes America Great.
Case in point: my daughter’s husband and in-laws immigrated from Hong Kong and speak Cantonese; as a result, my grandchildren are bilingual at ages 2 and 3. What an advantage! And while The Littles prefer the standard American kid diet of chicken nuggets and French fries, they’re exposed to bowls of interesting greens, savory sauces, and special sweets from Asia. But more than anything, they’re dearly cherished by grandparents who dote on them while their parents are at work. My grandchildren, and society, are richer in countless ways because they’re here.
Yet some, without knowing their backstory, would judge them, hate them, because of their race.
I’m not perfect. I’ve had moments of misunderstanding due to cultural or language barriers. But recognizing my own prejudices, I’ve become keenly aware that L-O-V-E has its own language that everyone can understand: It’s visible in Jason’s parents’ eyes; the love they feel for our grandchildren is as big as the Moon. Am I slightly jealous? Yes, because I’m an occasional visitor with less time to bond and they’re here full time. But I can set that aside knowing that when I leave, Our Littles will be adored by their fun, humble, and patient immigrant grandparents.
Welcoming immigrants—-who find their way here legally—-is something we should be proud of. I know I am. My life, and the lives of my grandchildren, are better off because America opened her doors to the Kwok Family. And my family, who immigrated to the U.S. after WWII, too.
It’s getting close to dinner time. I can hear hunger ramping up in the family room. Closing the blinds and turning on the twinkle lights that so delights The Littles, I’m awestruck to see the sun still out and the snow that weighted down the balcony has already melted. I check my phone and see that the temperature is 42 degrees. Wow. Just like summer! The ominous end-of-the-world-as-we-know-it Mega Storm of 2024 is a slushy, beautiful mess. Just like America.
I can’t change the course of America, but I can tell a story or two. And so can you. Of the good. Of the worthy. Of the trying-our-best. Of the open hearts and smiles and good people willing to turn off brain-wash TV and social media, and follow Jesus’ command: Love thy neighbor as thyself.
Yes, from all reports it looks like things are going to Hell, but America has too many of us good folks to let that happen. In fact, loving “the other” is such an integral part of the American fabric, Emma Lazarus’ 1883 poem was etched in bronze at the base of the Statue of Liberty:
The New Colossus
Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
“Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she
With silent lips. “Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”
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.
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.”
Two weeks ago …
It’s 1 a.m. and the apartment is quiet. The parents are taking their shifts, The Littles are in Dreamland and I’m two glasses into a new bottle of Rangeland Cabernet and the final season of “The Crown”. It’s raining outside and will do so throughout the night. I’m alone with my thoughts, far away from “home”, my California, family, friends, my other life.
For more than a month I have been a full-time grandma and mother to my daughter who is figuring out her new life with three Littles Under Three.
I described our life this way to my older daughter who is somewhat envious of her little sister: It’s like being in a blender filled with pineapple, ice cubes and Matchbox toys. Smooth, grating, flamboyant, super loving, delicious and exhausting.
It’s easy to romanticize Motherhood. Even Grandparenthood. Perhaps it’s sacrilegious to say it is anything other than Holy. It is Holy. And Sacred. And fulfilling. And whipped cream frosting-ed with joy. And really truly amazing. But it is also never-ending, and a little boring, and former-life-missing and ingratiating and thankless and rewarding and photo-snapping and loud and never silent, mostly messy, and often creative, legacy-building—work.
For example: The babies wake up before you’re ready. Some days they’re happy. Some days they need Mommy. Some days they want breakfast. Some days they want sausage or a smoothie or toast or Cheerios or organic tangerines or nothing at all. For now, I’m in charge of The Morning as my worn-out daughter does her best to catch up sleep from a sleepless night nourishing The Wee One. Granddaughter needs to get to school by 8:15, so I roll out of bed, assemble something predictable and magical for breakfast—which she mostly rejects. Her fashion tastes are also discerning— the girl knows what she wants, and anything less can instigate a teen-age tantrum. So you learn to tread lightly and choose your battles, “Yes, it’s fine to wear the leopard print cardigan with a red plaid dress and Halloween leggings.”
“Brush your teeth.”
I don’t want to.
“Put on your socks.”
I don’t like those.
Not the boots? The light-up purple tennis shoes?
No, they hurt.
Not the black coat, the jean jacket with a sequined unicorn on the back? Where is your backpack? Where is your water bottle?”
It feels like I put in a day’s work before 8. Eventually, she gets to school, which happens to be downstairs from the apartment, then I swing into Duty 2: helping with our two-year-old, his Cantonese-speaking grandpa, and weary mom and three-week old baby brother. We play—as long as we can—-to give Mommy time to rest.
Our only break of the day is naptime, around 12:30, when we tidy up, make food, read, return phone, pay bills and chill—out before picking up the Granddaughter at 2:30. When she gets home, we play some more, wash dishes, fold clothes, go to the grocery store, make dinner, clean up, read books, take baths, and on lucky days, us grown-ups get to take a shower.
At 9, I retreat to the bedroom I’m borrowing while I’m in town, that precious space normally inhabited by the in-laws, but has been set aside for me while I’m here for a few months.
It’s 1:30 a.m. and I’m typing, abandoned the idea of sleeping a second night, because I’ve been here a month and am processing the blessings, the life, the traumatic shopping trip to Costco this afternoon with my two-and-three-year-old grandchildren on a Sunday when there were 20 carts waiting to buy eggs and a traffic jam the likes of which I never want to experience again.
Here in the Forest Hills area of New York, one must drive about 30 minutes away to shop at the Long Island Costco, so there’s that, and the flash flood warnings for the second weekend in a row.
My granddaughter vomits when we arrive at The Co. My toilet-training grandson’s pants are wet, and it’s pouring outside as we traipse across the bumper-to-bumper parking lot.
I am mot worn out, but I’m getting there.
I miss Mexico. I’ve only been there twice, once to Tijuana with my parents when I was in middle school, and Juarez when I was a reporter. I miss the unknown, the gentle celebration, the simplicity, the margaritas. So yesterday when both parents were home, I decided to postpone my way back to the apartment after a sun-drenched family pre-nap outing to the French bakery and gleefully skipped over to the local taqueria to treat myself to a margarita and avocado tostada.
It was lovely.
I considered ordering a second drink, but realized I’d likely stumble back, which isn’t a particularly flattering look for a grandma. Upon reflection, I probably should have indulged. A phone call with one of my kids about money woes completely erased all evidence of intoxication.
I wish I was a runner. I wish I was a climber. I wish I was a gymnast able to balance on a balance beam.
Being of service, being in the moment, being needed, and wanted, that’s a good feeling. But I realize, particularly after last Fall’s two-month sojourn in my camper van, that my longing to come up for air, get out of my pj’s and escape, keeps me sane.
In these days of Photoshopped lives, the reality of parenthood—and even sainted grandparenthood—-isn’t always dusted with powdered sugar. It is, of course, a blessing and I’m so very grateful to have the time to spend with my grands and daughter during this special time of their lives. But sometimes, us grandmas need time not to be grandmas or parents or any of the other roles us caring folks take on. Sometimes, a walk, a nap, an escape to the movies, a few minutes to write or read, paint, draw, listen to music or dance, is all one needs to re-boot the soul.
Postscript:
January 1, 2024.
There’s a lot going on, for everyone. The end of a year, that might have been filled with wonder or immense challenges, and the start of a new one. All the resolutions. The diet. Dry January. Saving vs. spending. Getting rid of junk. Being more present. My resolution is to try to not burn the candle at both ends, as my mother used to tell me. Being too much. Trying too hard. Caring for others more than myself. It’s a hard habit to break. But I’m going to do my best to turn this lifelong trend around. I’ll keep you posted.
In the meantime, do what you need to do to make you feel fulfilled, joyful and at peace. Find a way to incorporate the healthy, positive things that fortify and refresh your life. Every day. It’s a tall order, I totally get it. But we only get one go around. Today is the last today we’ll ever have. No more putting yourself on the back burner.
Happy New Year, dear friends. May this be the best one yet!
A Baby is Born
7:10 a.m. November 28
The sun has risen and traffic outside Room 4 in Labor and Delivery at Lenox Hill Hospital in Manhattan is officially jammed with taxis and Ubers and police cars and silly drivers honking their horns for God knows what reason. The 20-something-looking anesthesiologist just started his shift and Katie is his first epidural of the morning. Jason and I stand on the other side of the curtain near the door. The pain is getting bad; her moans rip me up. Instinctually, I ask Jason, who may or may not be a believer, to pray with me. We bow our heads and close our eyes:
“Dear God, thank you for being us today, and always. We ask that you keep Katie and the baby safe, healthy, and out of harm’s way. We thank you for your love and for listening to our prayers. Amen.”
Short and simple. Instantly, a wave of calm comes over me and I know that daughter and the baby are going to be OK.
The contractions ease up following the epidural and Katie uses the opportunity to rest.
“It’s going to be a long morning,” Jason says, easing back into the birthing partner’s lounge chair.
“I don’t know,” I respond, giving my daughter a kiss on her forehead. “You’re doing great, Katie. Your baby boy will be here soon.”
I walk back to the lobby, grab some water, research my new grandson’s astrology sign, then Jason texts me, “Her contractions are stronger!”
8 a.m.
My daughter’s grunt is animalistic and unmistakable to a mother who has given pre-epidural birth to three children and witnessed the birth of four of her five grandchildren.
“Something’s different,” she says.
“When did the nurse last check you? How dilated were you?
“About 15 minutes ago. I was five centimeters,” she says as the pain subsides.
“I’ll get the nurse.”
I look down the hall and interrupt two nurses exchanging information about a patient.
“My daughter’s ready to deliver!”
“OK,” they say, promising to get help.
Eight minutes pass.
I walk into the hallway again. “She’s ready to push! She needs help—NOW!”
They knew by my tone and face that I wasn’t screwing around. One of the nurses yells to her colleagues huddled around the nurse’s station, “She’s ready!” Two nurses and a doctor bolt toward Room 4, one of them wheeling a draped birthing cart.
I’m annoyed they didn’t move their butts sooner, but grateful they finally listened. (Next time I advocate on behalf of a loved one, I’ll be less friendly and more insistent.)
Two nurses, a resident-doctor, and his supervisor, Momma-Me, Jason, and Katie inhabit the 200-square-foot room.
Katie is in full throttle pushing mode until the doctor gently touches the baby’s thick black hair. He asks her to wait while he gets into place to deliver her little boy, “I don’t want the baby dropping on the floor.”
“Next contraction,” a nurse says, “push as hard as you can.”
She follows their lead, but I can tell she’s exhausted.
“One more push,” a nurse with a Jamaican accent says, “and baby will be in your arms.”
My daughter summons an ancient, Herculean force and my grandson surfs a current of a warm, wild, bloody river. He’s wailing. And Santa Claus red. And attached to the placenta still inside his cave home. He is perfect—toes, fingers, a black wig of hair and all the apparatus’ a guy needs to succeed in life. We’re all in tears, especially my daughter who is crying tears of relief and joy. The nurse puts him up to her cheeks and she wraps her arms around her sweet angel and kisses him and kisses him and kisses him.
8:30 a.m., November 28, 2023
My fifth grandchild, Boden Blue Kwok, was born on a sunny, cold day that required gloves, a knit hat, and double layers. I don’t know what else was going on in the world that day except we were all tired, elated—no, ecstatic—that a healthy little boy came into our lives and now we get to spend the rest of our lives getting to know him, love him, and spoil him.
Honestly, I doubt that life could get much better than this. Holding 8-pound, 1-ounce, 20.5 inches long, Boden Blue; Grandma’s boy who has loved him the moment she knew of his existence is now holding our expanding family’s blessing in the flesh.
When people say there are no words, there aren’t. This balloon-in-your-chest buoyant, uplifting, expansive, warm South Seas of unconditional love feeling is brighter than the brightest Christmas star. This feeling of loving forever and beyond, of willingly giving your right and left arm, your legs, your torso, your eyes—your everything—for another soul is what everything—EVERYTHING—is about. To love, through thick and thin, through Life’s Winters and Summers, is The Prescription, The Cure.
While we found Love through the eyes of a child, the Love of a favorite lagoon, the sight of an aging Monarch, the discovery of a curious roadrunner on the porch of your mother’s home, a phone call from an intuitive high school chum who senses you need a friend, are manifestations of Love.
This, of all seasons, whether you celebrate Hanukah, Christmas, Kwanza, the Winter Solstice, Santa, or all or none of the above, is a time to be porous, to see, hear, feel, give, and believe in hope and possibility, knowing that each one of us is loved beyond all understanding, loved by a force mightier than anything we can imagine. But loving a baby, well, that comes pretty damn close.
Born again
Nov. 27, 2023: 8:50 p.m. Full moon Monday in New York City
My daughter yells from her bedroom as her husband drills-in screws to hold up a curtain rod for the new beachy curtains she recently purchased to soften the paint-chipped 1960s windows in her living room, “MY WATER BROKE!”
Buzz Buzz BUZZ BUZZ
“Jason,” I yell, walking into the beehive-construction-zone living room. “Her water broke!” He tosses the power drill on the well-loved black leather couch and freezes deer-in-the-headlights still.
It’s happening.
My Baby Three is about to have her Baby No. 3, a little boy who decided he just had to be part of these formerly California/Hong Kong-residents’ lives. An unexpected—unplanned—wee lad with a mind of his own. Daughter Three was in training for her second NYC Marathon when a routine doctor’s appointment in the Spring revealed she was “with child”—SURPRISE!
I didn’t find out about the pregnancy until Jack and Grandma’s July trip to New York when she stood sideways, stroked her “with child” belly, and revealed the news. While shocked, and a little worried about the stress raising three children under the age of three could take on the sanest of souls, I knew that if anyone could handle the challenge of mentoring a bustling preschool brood it was Katie, my beloved fourth-grade teacher-daughter-mother-wife-sister-cousin-friend of my 3-year-old granddaughter and 2-year-old.
While now somewhat of a pregnancy expert, Pregnancy Three poised a few worries; the baby had an irregular heartbeat, which remedied itself, and the umbilical cord lassoed twice around Baby Boy’s neck, which days before Game Day also blessedly remedied itself. And then there was that upsetting work-related tumble which caused a scare, but other than a few bruises, caused no harm to mommy or baby.
Scary stuff, but they got through it and now it was Game Day, The Fourth Quarter and, as we know, all kinds of unknowns and drama can happen during labor and delivery.
Nov. 23 Tuesday 3:20 a.m.
We’re in a worn black Kia sedan that smells like cigarettes, on our way to Lenox Hill Hospital in Manhattan, about a 40-minute drive from the apartment. The driver talks and talks incessantly about the health problems his son had when he was born eleven years ago. Not exactly the gruesome details an in-labor mom wants to hear.
Fortunately, traffic is blessedly light, and we weave in and out of New York City like an eel slithering across a moon-lit pond. Katie opens her eyes in between contractions and remembers running the same streets during last year’s New York City Marathon. She vows to run the 26.2 miles next November, 2024. A crazy goal to me, but if anyone can do it, it’s this powerhouse of a woman.
I’m in the backseat next to her, remembering our partnership 33 years ago when she came into my life. We were a team then, and now. As I watch her silent strength breathing in and out through each contraction, I’m overwhelmed with love and admiration for the woman she’s become. “They’re manageable,” she assures me, noticing my wincing face, a mirror of hers.
Ambulances line 77th Street leaving a welcome gap for laboring moms to enter Lenox Hill, the very same hospital featured in a Netflix documentary.
Security guards check us in, then wish my daughter, “Good luck.”’ We take the elevator up to the Sixth Floor where Katie is gowned, triaged, and assessed. When she’s transferred to the birthing room, she’s three centimeters dilated. The medical consensus is, “It will be a long day. Rest while you can.”
My prediction: “The baby will be here before 11, more likely 9 a.m.”
4:26 a.m.
My daughter’s resting next to her resident doctor husband, who is also trying to sleep. Me and my project-stuffed backpack head to the waiting room to give them privacy.
After about 30 minutes, I text her, “Do you need your back or feet rubbed?” I’m sitting in the lobby watching HGTV. “No, not yet.”
I think about my new grandson, what he’ll look like, be like, the love and challenges his expanding family will inevitably face. I wonder how the little guy’s brother and sister will adjust to their new roommate and if his four-legged siblings will go-with-the-flow or be jealous.
It’s going to be hard and wonderful and amazing and a full-on-confetti-rain fiesta, a joyous, chaotic, Big Love circle of life celebration. Our family is about to grow by one. The most amazing gift on the Planet. I’ll be a grandma to five grandchildren. Four grandsons and one granddaughter. My eyes fill with tears.
God has blessed me beyond anything I could imagine. Grandmother. The most beloved title in the world. Better than President or CEO or a mega-earning rock star. To my Littles and older Littles, I AM a kooky astronaut rock star who they know loves them to the moon and back.
I close my eyes, tune-out cable TV’s news cycle, and pray for a safe delivery: “Dear God, thank you for taking care of them, protecting them and keeping them safe, healthy, and out of harm’s way.”
As he is born, so will my daughter, and her mother, and our expanding family.
Born again.
Learning to pivot
Def.: to adapt or improve by adjusting or modifying something.
Much has happened since getting off the road, which was inspired by a doctor’s appointment, which, thank God, turned out A-OK. Just one layer of basal cell nastiness had to be removed, so all that teen-age baby oil sun exposure damage seems to be behind me, at least for now. The lesson: get to a dermatologist and have your skin checked. Wear a hat, sunscreen and take care of that beautiful skin of yours.
I’m only in the South Bay for a couple of weeks before heading out of town to be with my younger daughter and family as we await the birth of her baby boy. I’m going to stay with her for a few months as she adjusts to life with three babies under the age of 3. Her husband’s career-intense residency at a hospital 40 minutes away means much of the parenting is on her for now, so hopefully my presence will be helpful.
For the last week and a half, I’ve been sleeping in my van either at the Marina, the hospital parking lot, or outside my niece’s home in Malibu. It is such a cozy, homey feeling living in my apartment-on-wheels. I have everything I need to be comfortable, a bed, fridge, stove, toilet, all my clothes, reading materials and a TV. I didn’t realize when I purchased Miss Bonnie Doon from my former neighbors just how much I would l-o-v-e her.
I mentioned camping-out at the hospital(s) parking lot. It wasn’t a random destination. I was grateful to have my van to sleep in, cook nourishing foods in, to support my beloved cousin’s recovery from surgery and an unexpected heart event. I didn’t want to leave my buddy’s side in case she needed me. Being close by was a comfort—-to both of us.
While surgery to remove a troubled appendix and an adjoining section of colon went smoothly, something happened during the procedure to damage her heart, her surgeon said. Things looked pretty bad, honestly. A blockage. A weakened heart muscle. Her breathing was labored. Her skin was grey and she was incredibly weak. An echocardiogram and blood tests revealed that something was terribly wrong but the only way to determine the extent of the problem was with further blood tests and an angiogram.
She was worried. We all were worried, even though we kept the mood upbeat and positive.
I prayed. She prayed. We all prayed.
Like always, God listened.
After the procedure, the cardiologist said my cousin’s arteries were clearer than his—no blockages—and her heart showed no signs of distress. Whatever the problem was, it was gone–vanished–and the doctors had no explanation.
I know there’s science that can explain her literal change of heart, but I accept and know it for what it was/is—God did it again!
Many, many, many people don’t get such Good News. Their stories, their family members’, take medical turns for the worse; they don’t get the reprieve we did. The tears in the waiting rooms. I witnessed them. The screams in the hallways. I heard them. The troubled souls with no visitors and no place to go once discharged, are reminders of just how blessed we are.
We have each other. Family. Friends. Health. Shelter. And faith.
I have many regrets. Sometimes I look over my shoulder at past failures and regrets far too often, and long. It pulls me down into a dark cavern that makes me feel like choking. Thankfully, I’m able to climb out, see the sun, and take the hand of The One who loves me today, tomorrow, and always.
Grateful.
Overjoyed.
Humbled.
Amazed that out of all the people, of all the dire circumstances He has tugging on him, God listened to little ol’ us.
Can you see my smile? Can you feel my swollen-with-gratitude heart?
In this moment, right now, as I pivot to my next East Coast calling, my bestie is recovering in Malibu with her daughter and family and on the path to physical and spiritual good health. And so am I.
Thank you friends—-and you know who you are—-for your continued prayers. Please know that you are also in my heart and prayers.
The Last Day
To say I’m in mourning isn’t exactly accurate. I’m Grateful with a capital G, but also stunned that so much time passed so quickly. Almost two months. Gone. Just like that. Snap! A trip I imagined for years and years and years. My dream of taking off in a camper van and vanishing. Making a right turn if it made sense. Going left if it meant experiencing something new or familiar. Chasing the Sun. Getting out of the Sun. Then returning to the place I started, the place that means everything to me, Cambria. Visiting with my high school buddy for an early dinner at Las Cambritas. How appropriate! Being quiet and still in my camp spot mid-week camping is da bomb. Eating healthy foods, drinking local wines, staging my crib with pumpkins and Native American print fabric. A Trader Joe’s bouquet of yellow-rust mums and my orange and white strand of solar lights.
Sigh.
My portable Weber grill patiently waits for the last Outdoor Feast of the Season. The gentle ocean breeze feathers my ruddy cheeks as the grey squirrel stretches her belly in the sun-warmed charcoal-laced dirt.
Oh my God how I love my Life, roaming, settling, meeting new people, being outdoors in all kinds of weather, having no responsibilities, other than to myself. Being comfortable in silence with minimal distractions. My writing. My paints. My books. My wonderful organic foods I love cooking for myself. Veggie stir-fry’s, Cereal for dinner. Fresh fried eggs with mushrooms and pepper. Tonight, grilled salmon from Giovanni’s in Morro Bay with Japanese sweet potatoes and a half a bag of broccoli. No complaints. No alternative food considerations. If I want a glass of rose at 3:45, I can have one. If I want to wake up at 6 a.m., make a cup of New Mexico coffee and finish my book or the documentary I started last night, I can do so. I can keep the windows open and run the heater, fall back to sleep and doze until 10, take a walk along the beach, a second hike along the cliffs, come back and paint, read, write, or just think.
I recommend this lifestyle to everyone, especially women. Go off, have an adventure, and don’t come back until you’re ready.
I’m not ready, if I’m honest. But I have a medical appointment I have been putting off since September and must attend to it Monday, otherwise, I’d still be on the road. There’s so much to see. So much to discover. And I’m not just talking about cultural and historic points of interest. Really, this journey has been an internal coddiwomple with the outside world being a vehicle to bring the focus back on myself.
My oldest daughter recently called me a narcissist. Now this wouldn’t be the label I’d assign myself. But perhaps it’s true if loving and accepting myself for who I am—warts and all—for the first time in my Entire Life, then I’ll agree, I’m a narc and I’ll wear the emoji proudly.
This self-love revelation is a generational shift. My mother did not have the luxury of caring for herself. She lived in a time that self-care consisted of hiding her cigarette addition. I wish, how I wish, I had seen her put herself first, instead of her kids and husband. I wish I had watched her stand up for herself instead of allowing circumstances to dictate her life. I wish I had witnessed her evolution from the 1950s to the 2000s. Unfortunately, she left the world too early.
So now it is up to me, for Me.
I need to say No when I need to say No and Yes when I need to say Yes. I need to love myself enough that I’m OK with people not liking or “getting” me.
I’m emboldened to be myself. Because that’s all God, my Source and Savior, has ever asked of me.
I’m not going to get all religious. But my Faith, my relationship with God that I have been aware of and could articulate since I was in the Third Grade, is my rock. Going forward, when shit happens, I’m calling God.
This adventure has been an adventure, one I can’t wait to continue next Spring. Not sure how it will manifest, or the date, but amazing things are on the horizon. I can just feel it. It’s like I’m on a horse that’s about to go full throttle along the shore.
While it would be awesome to have my hair flowing and my skin taunt against the salty sea, it’s happening now, as Fall turns into Winter. Not too late. Just about right, I’d say.
On the last day of my epic Sojourn 2023, I conclude with a big hug and Thank You for indulging me with my joy, my ups and down and little girl wonder as I saddled up and traveled north and east and south and west in my quest to start where I began.
Do it! That’s how I want to end these travel blogs. Two months. Two years. Two days. It all goes by so quickly. My campsite neighbor, Kristine V., said to me, “On your deathbed, what would your regret not doing?”
I know my answer. Do you?
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