The soldiers came on a sunny day with red leaves falling on the grass outside. The soldiers asked for Mrs. Samuel Baylus and mother turned to us, her smile like a mask, and told us to go play outside.
I wanted to stay. “I hope your husband is dead,” I thought in angry not-words. “I hope the soldiers make you cry,” I thought. Then I went outside with Norman, sat down in the tree house, and cried because I knew that daddy would never come home.
Before tragedy struck
I want to preface this post with a bold statement: I rarely, if ever, have felt guilty as a mom. In fact, I hardly ever experience guilt. I have recently wondered if that makes me a sociopath. Hopefully not. But as a mom, I try to give my kids all that I have to give — at least I did until recently. I have always tried not to leave myself any room to feel guilty.
This weekend, while we were camping with the kids, Nate, our youngest, fell into the campfire. He burned his hand badly, and I spent most of the night in two ERs getting him treatment. It was a complete accident. Geoff was starting the fire while the kids played in their fort on the other side of our campsite. Midway through setting up the fire, Nate wandered over to Geoff, who was sawing apart a log. Geoff warned Nate to stay back, and Nate turned and started walking away, looking at Geoff over his shoulder. He took a few steps and tripped directly into the fire, which, thank God, was low, tiny. Geoff saw what happened and immediately pulled him out, but the damage was instantaneous. We all jumped into the car and headed to the nearest hospital.
Where was I while this happened? I was reading a book. In my chair. Watching from afar. I’m embarrassed to admit it. I think of my best friends, the ones who are moms, and I know that each one of them would have been following behind their babies wherever they went around the campsite. There was an open fire and I was reading a book. It’s unforgivable.
The attending doctor at the first ER was concerned that Nate should receive care from a pediatric burn unit. He told me that Nate would need to be put under while his wounded hand was cleaned and the damage accessed. So we transferred to another hospital, closer to home, now at 9 p.m.
Nate fell asleep in the ambulance. It was heartbreaking to see his car seat belted into a stretcher. He looked so tiny and helpless. When the EMT covered him with a white hospital blanket, I couldn’t stop myself from crying. What if the fire had been bigger? What if Geoff hadn’t pulled him out so quickly? All the impossibilities came flooding in at once. If the EMT, sitting across from me in the ambulance, noticed me crying, she didn’t say. How could she have known how much I hate white hospital blankets, how they will always only be shrouds to me ever since my mom died? How could she have known that covering my baby with one to keep him warm in the air-conditioning would put me back in that room with my mom who died so suddenly that I couldn’t even make it to the hospital in time to say goodbye? She couldn’t. She meant well, and truthfully, it all turned out fine.
We made it to the second hospital, and a team of burn doctors assured me that Nate’s hand will heal without surgery. They bandaged his hand, sent us home, and all is well today. He’s learning to be a lefty without much complaint. But I still can’t shake this too-close-for-comfort feeling of near-miss, and I can’t let go of the blame. Maybe I shouldn’t.
When I was a kid, we celebrated all the holidays. Our menorah went next to the Christmas tree, and our Easter dinner often included ham and matzoh. Go ahead, laugh. Just don’t judge me.
Let’s generalize and say that I was formally, publicly, Catholic. I attended Sacred Heart Elementary, where I learned to love Jesus, to recite Our Father and Hail Mary, and where I colored xeroxed copies of the stations of the cross. At home, my mom, my sister, my Bubbie all cursed in Yiddish and ate corned beef. I didn’t question it until much later.
As a teenager, I abruptly decided to give up Catholicism, and celebrate only Jewish holidays. I felt that the main point of religion was to honor your ancestors, never mind spirituality. I still agree with this to a point, but I have long since realized that I wanted my Bubbie to love her more. I thought that if I were more Jewish, like her, that she would. Did she? Did it work? I don’t know. She was inscrutable.
On Christmas as a kid, my mom would take me to midnight mass. I remember one year seeing a young couple kissing in their pew. That beautiful image has stuck with me all this time, that joyful and spiritual togetherness. Sometimes the memory is sweet, sometimes it breaks my heart. I never talk about it.
My mom taught me that all religions are just different paths to the same God. I agree, but I still grew up feeling confused and slighted for not having one singular religious identity like my friends did. Why did my mom choose to walk two paths at once while raising me, between the Judaism that she grew up with and her chosen Catholicism? If she were still alive, I would ask her. In her absence, I have to guess that those childhood memories are powerful and it was her instinct to share them with me. But what I would like more than anything is to experience that shared faith, that certainty in that which cannot be seen. My mom found her spiritual source in church, but she chose not to force that source on me. I understand why, but I can’t help feeling that that intangible piece of religion, the faith, is lost to me.
I’ve long since made my decision on religion, and Geoff and I basically agree: We’re happy to belong to our synagogue, to send the kids to Sunday school, and to see them developing their singular religious identities. They deserve it. And even though their Grandma does occasionally take them to church, they know they are Jewish. I’m glad to offer that certainty to them. But as for the other piece of it–the faith that I’ve only ever felt in church–how can I ever share that with them?
Pink hollyhocks burst against an adobe wall.
A ladder to nowhere casts haphazard shadows.
Sagebrush guards the well; her black door becomes a window, becomes an eye, becomes a gate to the faraway.
This morning, he was lying facedown on my bed, his adorable little face lying on the blanket, so I joined him. I put my face right up against his on the blanket, nose to nose. He laughed. We stayed like that for a moment, smiling at each other. Then he jumped up and climbed onto my back, wrapping his arms and legs around me like a baby monkey. He laughed and said, “Mommy!” Then we laid like that for awhile.
I love him like crazy at this age. He’s so open, so full of himself. He has little fear and heaps of curiosity. He doesn’t hold himself back. If only he could permanently remain in the here and now and not reach two, a thief waiting to steal all of his fun.
The little mischief maker:
It flits by, quietly landing on her arm.
“Look,” I whisper, gently touching her arm near its landing place.
“Oh, a damselfly!” she whispers excitedly.
Of course she knows its proper name, but that doesn’t explain how she attracts these ethereal beings, why they seem to hover around her daily as if they recognize her.
“How do you charm them?” I ask as the damselfly moves away.
She laughs in reply.
(Sorry, this post isn’t politically correct. Please don’t take offense.)
The kids were fighting. Gabe smacked Anna, and she was crying, milking it as usual. The tour guide, a grandmotherly black woman, came over, concerned.
“You don’t hit your sister like that,” she said, serious. “You’re the man,” she said to Gabe. A look of surprise passed his face, then he smirked at me, embarrassed.
Just as quick, the tour guide lightened up. “But I saw you messing with him,” she laughed, looking at Anna. It was obvious that she wasn’t angry, just admonishing. She turned to the baby in his stroller. “And you? Are you stayin’ out of it?” she asked. Nate grinned.
When I was little, my mom and I lived downstairs from a very kind black woman. She had a grown son and no grandkids of her own, so she sort of adopted me. I remember spending a lot of time with her. She was large and soft and often laughing. Black ladies like that just ooze love. But here’s the thing: There’s something in their size, their strong voices that commands respect.
Kids know this. They take one look, and they feel the dichotomy of fear and attraction. They want the laughter and they need the authority. They want the unequivocal love they find in her gaze, the soft squishiness of her hug, even the strictness of her directions.
A black grandma preaches it like it is. She doesn’t try to win favor and she’s demanding. Kids never get the better of her. But she always cuts her edge with a smile or a treat. She has a thing or two to teach the kids and she dives right in. Then she hugs, she kisses, she tickles. She’s an expert at bandaid application. She sings. She shows you God. She refuses to take any crap. She feeds your soul.
Do you have a black grandma?
My five-year old graduated from preschool today. They had a little ceremony and marched in to Pomp and Circumstance, received diplomas. It was sweet.
My son, Gabe, is ready for kindergarten. I’m excited for him to start full-day school in a few weeks. He’s on the brink of learning to read, which is so great to witness. I love that he almost, but doesn’t quite, know how to put the letters together to make words, or how to translate the letters that are there into sounds. But he tries so hard.
The teachers at Gabe’s preschool speak Spanish. All are native Spanish speakers, and most of the kids in his school have parents who are native Spanish speakers. My daughter also went to this preschool, and now attends a Spanish-immersion program in our city’s public school system. Gabe will start there in August. He already speaks and understands lots of Spanish, thanks to preschool. He and his sister speak to each other a little, and I look forward to them sharing it more as they get older. Neither Geoff nor I is fluent in Spanish, so for the kids, it will be like their own secret language. I like that. I love the sounds of Spanglish floating around my house, and I love that my one-year old calls all cookies and crackers galletas.
I love that as my kids grow, the sounds of Spanish anywhere — here in our city, or in any other place — will always bring them back to being a kid in preschool. There is something so magical about the memories of early childhood, and how a sight or sound or smell can take you back instantly. Childhood seems somehow more vivid than the rest of life, and I like that my kids will have a whole language as signifying fodder.
I also love that the Hispanic teachers at my kids’ school treat them like family, that the kids know what it’s like to have a huge family with lots of cousins even though we don’t. The kids in Gabe’s class are relaxed, and no one is forced to make art projects or complete other tasks. They play. Parents can come and go in the classroom as they like, and the kids seem genuinely happy. Singing is nearly constant.
When Gabe starts kindergarten in six weeks, he will be comfortable with being on his own in a classroom. The sounds of Spanish around him will calm him, and he will be ready to learn. I’ll bet that he’s reading by October.
The first time, we missed it. I took photos of the mountains beyond.
The second time, we whizzed by its jutting head. “Look!” We all shouted.
Finally, the third time, we pulled over.
I competed in a triathlon yesterday. Now, I’m no athlete. If you know me, you know that’s true. In fact, for some of my readers, who do know me but have not seen me in a while, this might come as a shock.
So let me explain. I competed as part of a relay team. I swam half a mile in just under 20 minutes, and ran on hard pavement to pass off our team’s ankle bracelet to my best friend, who was biking 14 miles. I did it all for her. Earlier this year she became diabetic, and the year has been such a struggle for her to come to terms with her new identity. Biking is something that she loves. It reminds her of how strong and healthy she is. So when she asked me to swim on her triathlon team, I immediately agreed. Half a mile in the pool was no big deal for me, athlete or not.
The thing is, the triathlon really impressed me. All the athletes were women. They came in all ages, shapes, and abilities. There was a small group of elites who completed the whole race in under an hour. There were cross-generational relay teams with moms and daughters. There was a large group of cancer survivors. There were moms, there were teenagers. There were die-hards and there were slowpokes. What I noticed the most was that everyone was there to support each other. There was an unspoken (and sometimes spoken) message that “we can do this!” It was so inspiring,
My daughter was very concerned about who won. At her age, winning matters. But the thing is, yesterday wasn’t about winning. It was about personal strength, determination, and health. There was energy up for grabs everywhere, and even more than that — sisterhood. It was awesome.
