Snapshots, Ghosts, and Good Reads

What kind of a fan would I be if I didn't say something about the Blackhawks? Last night they won their first Stanley Cup since 1961. Now that was wonderful. It doesn't get better than this for Chicago. Of course, we want to know, why are people still playing hockey mid-June?

A few weeks ago I went to a baseball game, watched as the St. Louis Cardinals clobbered the Chicago Cubs, as usual. It was all too depressing. Real soon I'll get serious, write a therapy post about managing this, depression and sports. Or just depression.

Last Thursday I canceled out and got on an airplane, returned with a carousel of slides, invited all my friends over to see pictures of my trip to France, Germany, and Italy.

No, not really. I went to Atlanta, ninety minutes by air, to visit my kids and their kids and the machetunim (too tired to explain this word). The machs provide me healthy snacks with sugar, like Think Fruit (sold out on Amazon, but I tried). Healthy snacks with sugar-- not an oxymoron in the South.

1.

That's a snapshot, not mine, of a swagman, a Matilda. The joke is that the song, Waltzing Matilda, according to FD, our resident music expert, isn't even a waltz. Waltzing Matilda, however, has its own museum, the Waltzing Matilda Centre in Winton, Queensland. Not too many songs have that, their own museum.

Why Matilda?

The kid is a little cranky and his Mom tells me,

"Just wait until we turn on Waltzing Matilda. You've never seen a kid smile like this one smiles when he hears Waltzing Matilda."

And she's right, of course. It's a smile that lights up the room, and the chant, Tilda, Tilda, delicious. The next Matilda he meets, he'll surely follow home.

Waltzing Matilda is a folk ballad written in 1887 by Australian poet Bajo Paterson. This unofficial national anthem is the story of a swagman or hobo, a drifter who carries his few things in an over-the-shoulder sack hanging from a stick. The swagman in the legend is caught steeling a sheep, a crime punishable by death in Australia, circa 1887. He hastens the execution by ending his own life, then returns as a ghost, apparently to dance.

This isn't going to be good for my kids, is all I can say, when they hear the real story. One can only hope that the song loses its glitter real soon.

2.



I chose Atlanta over Paris because Rak told me her pantry was a mess; she needed me. Although many people, maybe most, resent their mothers-in-law when they begin to clean, move things around, meddle in their lives, Rak does not, knowing I'm a total sucker for a good pantry.

3.



The kids belong to a book club and wouldn't you know, they sent Rak a parenting book, one I'd read about on DaMomma's blog. Rak hasn't read it, she hasn't got time to do most things, but child psychologist Wendy Mogel had me at the title-- The Blessing of a Skinned Knee: Using Jewish Teachings to Raise Self-Reliant Children.

You know how I feel about self-reliance (a.k.a. independence) and taking calculated risks-- both good-- maybe to the degree that a person breaks a little skin on occasion. At least get a paper cut without freaking out.

Skinned Knee is a quick read, one full of good behavioral strategies for parents, and lots of fabulous theology, if you like that sort of thing.*

4.

It's a jungle in Atlanta in the summertime, all green and wet and fertile. You can't predict the weather; it changes hour to hour, minute to minute, but you can count on the humidity. At least that's how it is whenever I visit. But they grow bamboo in the backyard, so it feels very exotic, if wet, and hardly ever snows, which might be a good thing.

Before picking up Skinned, I was in the middle of a war novel about Viet Nam, a random find at the library.



Tim O'Brien, the guy with the baseball cap, author of  The Things They Carried, had to make the decision that many draftees made in the sixties,

Do I run away, dodge the draft, move to Canada?

Or,

Do I fight a war I'm pretty sure I don't believe in?

What a choice!

Mr. O'Brien chose war rather than cope with the townies whispering coward behind his back. Shows how far we'll go for our reputations, what we'll do to avoid bullies.

The Things They Carried is literally about what they carried with them, our troops in Viet Nam, and the telling of war stories. He tells us that if you don't tell your stories, if you don't talk, you will be sick.  One story, perhaps the most powerful, is about a soldier who can't talk about his experiences in Viet nam, post-war. The best he can do is drive around the lake alone in his father's old Chevy, again and again and again. He can't talk and he doesn't make it, doesn't survive civilian life.

You read this book until you can't take anymore stories, then you put it down, take a break, read something else. But make no mistake, you come back to finish it. The things they carried, some heavy, some symbolic, all terribly, terribly lush.

5.

I don't have a photo of the tomatoes or flowers, but on one of my walks with my granddaughter (4) we met up with a typical Southerner who offered us starter flower and vegetable plants to take home and plant, which we did. Another neighbor wouldn't let us move on until she packed us up with fruit and crackers. This is not a Yankee town.

6.

We had to go to the Botanical Gardens, of course. FD is a very empathetic guy, you can tell, communes with nature.


They have flowers there at the gardens, and frogs, and the trees hug you, apparently, if you're not careful, with their oxygen.

7.



Trees Hug Back is the headline.

Remember that bumper sticker, Have you hugged your kid today? What happened to that campaign? Probably too much hugging-- all those helicopter parents spoiled it for everyone.

8.

FD found us a new park to break in, complete with nature trails made from recycled tires.



You young people may not even realize that there was a time when a kid had to skin his knees. There was no choice. A playground was a dangerous place, none of this soft landing stuff.

9.

Speaking of landings.



That's an AirTran wing.  I did not sit with FD, and the fellow who had the window seat to my right, James, did his best to get out of my way so I could take a picture.  But it was still hard to focus from the center seat. James had pushed out his hand for me to shake the moment we made eye contact, and it was refreshing, such natural warmth. I think it's a southern thing, but we do feel it, sometimes, when we travel by air, no?

We landed in Chicago, fairly softly, Sunday night around midnight, about as softly as one can on that short runway at Midway.

Good to go, good to come home. The CBT post might be more significant, I guess.

Although there's nothing insignificant, you have to agree, about ghosts.

therapydoc

*Some of us might consider this a kiddish haShem, (rhymes with skittish ha! gem)a positive force in the universe.

Snapshots: Way Beyond SADS

MORE than a little wing, there.

We’re at the Midway Park and Fly for an overnight check-in and Chris, a man-of-girth parking attendant, has lifted my carry-on to the shuttle.

"Wha’cha’ flying?" he asks FD.

"AirTran."

"AirTran it is."

Yes, AirTran has wooed us away from American, at least when we fly south. And we do this so often that the Park and Fly knows our name. They reserve us a special angle parking spot against the garage, Aisle J.

I’ve blown off a Sunday full of patients and FD has a new baby in the hospital, so both of us have misgivings about the trip. But we’re Bubbie and Saba* and we have a job to do.

It’s supposedly snowing down south. We land and it’s not snowing. It’s driving snow. Someone up there is pelting us with snow. There is snow on the ground, at least two inches, and the kids in the row in front of us are saying, Yeah, we’re getting four inches, for sure. Maybe more.

This isn’t why Chicagoans fly south.

The city is up in arms, freaked out, at a standstill. They don’t own scrapers in the south. What’s a snow scraper?

They don’t know about salt. There are no in-service workshops teaching Streets and Sanitation that if you salt icy streets, magic, snow will melt.

I look out at the ground crew scratching their heads. A minivan with a miniscule plow at the bumper weakly pushes snow along the tarmac. "That’s what they use to plow runways," I crack to FD. He chuckles.

"So glad you’re in a good mood," I shoot back.

Our son picks us up from the train. The city has a nice public transportation system and you know I love trains. He looks good, our boy, as all young people look good to us, but he seems to look better than most. He tells us our granddaughter has her wish, this wish for snow, and I’m thinking . . .Marvelous, should have brought my skis. We pull into the driveway and there she is building a snowman with her aunt.

And everything changes.

The endorphins rush from the walls just seeing her. FD is out of the car in a flash, building a snowman, too, searching for a nose. Of weaker stuff, I slowly gather my things, wave to the kid, and head indoors to see her sibs and stretch out a bit. It's a long time in that sardine can they call an airplane.

These other grandchildren are edible, so I eat them, mostly visually, the camera snapping away. My beautiful daughter-in-law is laughing as I brush snow off my sleeve. She's apologizing. "We didn’t ask for the weather, honest, Mom, you have to believe me."

Sure I believe you. I continue to eat her children, three months old, six months in all. We do multiples in our family, not quite on the scale of the octuplets, but doubles aren’t that unusual. And for me, having had twins over thirty years ago, having one of these small people father very new multips--well, watching him and his lovely wife juggle the two of them, it’s déjà vu all over again.

They try to feed us, but we’re too busy with the entertainment.

None of us wants to go anywhere and there’s ICE out there, you know, and people can’t drive in this, some of it could be black ice. We're led to believe southern drivers are all homicidal maniacs; we believe what you tell us.

At some point FD thinks of the obvious way out of the cabin fever that has followed both of us from the airplane and gingerly suggests, "Let’s go to Target!" Well, this is an acceptable field trip, nearby, and there’s always room for diapers.

Before we go, my granddaughter reminds me that I'm supposed to make her warm milk and honey, some weird tradition she associates with me, so we do this. She’s sipping, searching her brain. "Remember those kids at your house. . ."

"Your cousins! Yes! We’re all going to be together again soon, for Pesach. (rhymes with grey socks and it's Hebrew for the Passover holiday coming up). And you’re going to see all your other aunts and uncles, even the one who JUST became editor in chief of law review and it’s not based on looks. . ."

"And, and, and. . .play with the kids."

"Uh, huh."

“What’s this?” she asks, tugging at the tangerine silk blouse I have under a pale orange cotton sweater. Neither is warm enough in this unexpected cold, but surely better than the silk kimono on a skinny fellow we saw rushing off the train. Did you see that? A kimono! He must be freezing!



"Do you like it? It’s my tangerine blouse. Want me to get you one, too?"

And we’re off to Target. I buy her mother a book, Look Me in the Eye: My Life with Asperger's by John Elder Robison. It comes highly recommended, although I haven’t read it myself. This is my cheap way of getting books. I buy them for Rac, she gives them back to me to read when she's finished, then I send them to the next bidder in the family who shows an interest.

It's that or the library, also a good thing, but they charged me $2.40 for an overdue book the other day, and I swear** to you, I renewed it on time.

Anyway, it’s pretty hard to find our favorite three-year old a tangerine shirt, so she opts for a dress, navy and kelly green, although she really wants a frilly, lacy, yellow Easter frock that just doesn’t work for me. We find a Size-Me chart and she stands up next to it.

"You’re a 4-Toddler," I say.

"A FOUR!!!! I’m a FOUR!!!! My mommy says I’m THREE! But I’m really FOUR!!!" As in, I knew it.

We put in a solid couple of hours shopping and eating, meeting her mother and sibs at the pizza shop, and everyone behaves incredibly well. We return home for bath time and I'm elected to do this, which only makes sense, since I bought the new rubber duckies, the yellow ones, you've seen them, with the big momma duck and her three babies. I have also donated a fourth duck, a brilliantly engineered species that is really for testing the bath water to make sure it's not too hot. There's a sensor on the duck's underbelly and the word HOT will turn white if the water might roast your kid. The idea is that you put the duck in the water before the kid.

Anyway, the kid is swimming and splashing and I’m washing her, amazed at my good fortune, and it’s a good time overall, even hair-washing goes very well. At some point I sigh and say, "Maybe we better get you out of the tub now. I have to go."

She gives me this incredulous look. “You’re going?”

“Well, Saba and I have to get back to Chicago early in the morning.”

"You’re going?"

"You’re coming to visit soon!"

"Maybe I’ll come to Chicago with you now," she reasons. "And I’ll see Blue*** I want to go with you now. On the airplane." Done.

"But you’ll miss everybody, you’ll cry within minutes, as soon as you realize your mom isn't with us. You'll miss her, and your daddy."

"No I won’t."

"You’re only three."

"I’m four."

"Come on, let’s get you out of the tub into pajamas."

"No. I’m coming with you."

"Ask your mommy."

She lights up. Idea. She wriggles out of her towel and works the idea over with her mother.

Rac gives me a look to kill, as in, how COULD you?

But our little three/four year old is in pajamas and she knows she can’t go. But it is sad, and there's no getting around it, I've failed her. She thought we had a chance.

Next morning there’s hardly any more snow on the ground. Things melt quickly in the south. FD and I are back on a plane and the pilot’s telling us what to expect weather-wise in Chicago. We have a little snow.

He also tells us we’ll be taking off in ten minutes. A half hour later FD grumbles, “Good thing the pilot’s not a surgeon.”

“Huh?”

“You know, Uh, lady, the surgery only takes ten minutes, you’ll be out of here in no time. Oh Mr. Jones, that surgery went just fine, just great, you won’t have any pain (sic)."

FD is in a hurry, hates wasting time. He wants to discharge that baby and AirTran doesn’t seem to care.

I’m marveling at my view. Usually I sit in front of the wing but somehow couldn’t get that seat, and now I’m right here, on the wing. I look down and see the wing is made of several pieces and shapes, and one of them has arrows.



“What’s the story?" I ask anyone in hearing range. "They don’t know how to put the wing together without the help of arrows?”

Something to do with airflow. I change the subject.

“I can’t wait to see my fish. I hope they’re all okay. Number #4 takes good care of them, which makes sense, since food is a priority for him. But you know, a mother worries.”

I ramble on, FD seems to be listening, maybe. “I worry a little about Blue, you know, I really do. He's my favorite fish and he’s grown so big so fast. Maybe he has heart trouble. How would we know if he has heart disease?”

“Don’t worry,” FD quips, totally deadpan. “He swims every day.”

We land with a thud and I’m pretty sick, stumble out off the plane. Chris, our driver recognizes us as we take a seat on the shuttle. “Didn’t I drive you here just a couple of days ago?”

“It was just yesterday,” FD tells him.

“How could you go for just one day?” Chris is flabbergasted.

“Gotta’ get back to work,” I offer weakly.

“And this weather,” he continues. "To go from there to here. . ."

He lets us off at our car and before we can blink Chris is sweeping the snow off the car with a huge rubber snow scraper. This is not your average snow scraper, it’s more like an industrial push broom.

“Where did you get that?” I cry enviously. “I must have one.”

He mumbles something, but I’m thinking: If it keeps up, this global warming, this climate change, call it what you will, then there’s a new niche in the south.

Think . . . . scrapers.


therapydoc

*The Wall Street Journal did a piece about a month ago on grandparents and how people in my age group hate old-fashioned names like Bubbie, Nanna, Gramma, Tatti, etc. The labels make them feel old. They want their grandchildren to call the Fred, Sally, Gert, Debbie, Jim, etc.

Who ARE these people?

**blee neder, meaning I don't really swear.

***Blue, my favorite fish, is a Niger Trigger. He's from Nigeria and builds things out of sand when he gets bored.