Go Fish.

I have been writing on this site for almost four and a half years now,

chronicling my life,

current events,

trends,

ups and downs,

as a way to both keep a diary for myself,

and, more recently, to help others.

I write about a lot of things on here. I write the things that some people are scared to say. I write about what hurts.

I write so many words…

But there are some things that are too big for words.

This weekend my Grandparents, Mommom and Poppop, came to visit my kids. Here how it went:

I spoke to Mommom at 10am

“I am just going to put the baby down for a nap in a half an hour. I will call you as soon as he wakes up and you can come over.”

“Okay, great. We are dying to see the kiddies.”

An hour later…

Call from Mommom.

A half an hour after that…

Call from Mommom.

Finally, when the baby woke, I called her back.

“I told you I would call you as soon as he woke up! I would never forget to call you back!”

“I know, but I was just so excited to see them I couldn’t wait.”

And that’s how it goes. Mommom lives by her own rules, but she also sets the bar so high that it is almost hard to describe.

When my Grandparents arrived not 10 minutes later they came with a bag. Inside the bag was the following:

Green Italian Leaf cookies for me.

Alphabet noodles for the kids.

Homemade soup.

Pill bottles filled with beans that had been glued shut for my danger loving son. (Along with remotes, iPhones, knives and toilets, the baby also loves pill bottles. Not any surprise.)

A packet of cards for “Go Fish”.

It was a care package at it’s finest, because it really did show care. Because she listens when I’m on the phone with her and I shout to my son “No no no! Put down mommy’s medicine bottle!” (Just for the record, all of my medicines are kept in a box with a secure clip and closed with child safety lids. He’s just a crafty little devil.)

And do you remember that day last week when my daughter fell ill? Mommom remembered when I said I liked those green leaf cookies from the local deli when she ran in for Matzoh Ball Soup.

And she’s excited that my daughter is beginning to read, hence the letters noodles.

And she is teaching her how to play a favorite card game, just like she taught me when I was her age.

I remember so vividly being on the front porch at our beach house. We would sit, the cool ocean breeze filling our noses with salt air, and drink Lipton instant iced tea and play “Go Fish” and “War” over and over and over again. Then, she would make me a turkey and cheese sandwich on a kaiser roll and we would switch to the back deck and play some more.

Watching my daughter and my grandmother playing this game together today rendered me speechless.

My children are so fortunate to have great-grandparents, who are not just great-grandparents by name, but they are also great.

So Mommom, since I know you read this, even though you don’t have any clue what a blog is:

You may annoy me by telling me what to do,

or call incessantly, even when I tell you that I will call you,

but you also love us with every ounce of your being, and for that I am so grateful.

You are the one to drop groceries at our front door “just because”; you are the one who I can call 24 hours a day if I need you;

And you are the one who every single person whom you meet declares to be “just fabulous”, as you are chic as can be, and are on a first name basis with the people at Saks, Neimans and Mr. Louboutin (A friend texted me from the department store to say that she was serendipitously shoe shopping with my grandmother and heard her saying, “Yeah, I like the ones with the red bottoms.”)

So if life were a simple card game, and I needed a card for the most loving grandmother, then I have fished my wish.

I love you.

Burst pipes, burst tears, and the craziest week ever.

There are times when I find it difficult to find the words to type.

Other times, they just come pouring out.

Like a flood.

I write this post from a chair in my parents’ living room, in my dad’s XL sweatshirt, reeling.

Tears are starting to form in my eyes.

Like a flood.

***

This week we had historic rains. When we went to bed on Wednesday night after listening to an endless stream of water batting at our house, we were relieved to check our basement to find that no water had gotten in. Our basement has been historically dry, but this was a lot of rain. We felt relieved.

On Thursday afternoon, I was motivated to sneak in a quick load of laundry before an afternoon park play-date. I opened the basement door, and like a cartoon character, I rubbed my eyes, so perplexed,

no,

astounded, by what I saw:

Water. And not just a little. A foot. A foot of water covering our entire unfinished basement. A foot of water covering our appliances, our furniture, a glider I was giving to my friend for the baby she will be having this week, and more stuff than I even know how to articulate. Art, furniture, baby things; a hot water heater, our heating system, washer/dryer. This was a flood of enormous proportions. I was speechless. I saw my old diaper bag floating across the threshold to the staircase, which was covered, on several of our stairs, by water.

To make this long, stressful story short, my husband came home, we identified the problem. A burst pipe. Our basement was completely flooded, our things were ruined and we had to begin to process of cleaning up and starting over.

Friday was spent with a restoration and remediation company. Friday was spent with people, workers, adjusters, in and out of our house. We felt displaced, but we were OK.

Saturday started off nice. Really nice. The boys slept in and my daughter and I did a small, quiet grocery shop in the early morning hours. A charming little date, and we came home with pretty, pointy, purple potted plants and big blue hydrangeas.

If you follow me over on 511, you’ll know that I’ve been mulling over a possible room swap. We, together, decided, instead, to switch out our king bed for a queen, change bedding, change the layout of our current bedroom and get a new perspective from bed. We would take the TV out of the room and make it a cozy den in which we could cuddle and connect. We were so lucky that our dear friends had a spare Queen bed to offer, and so, on Saturday, our two men rented a UHaul, drove to pick up the Queen bed, and came back to set things up. This should have taken an hour; 5 hours, great frustration, a box spring that wouldn’t fit up stairs, a mistakenly measured bed and a very, very stressed husband later and we had a full-sized mattress on the floor of our room and no hope in sight. Mommom and Poppop came to our rescue, after making one distressed call to them after another this week, and bought us a brand new queen bed to be delivered on Monday. Grandparents are the best and mine are tops.

So last night, my husband and I cuddled up on the full mattress on the floor of our bedroom. Except, I wasn’t feeling so well. I was dizzy, lightheaded, a bit disoriented and nauseated. I was supposed to go next door for a Girl’s Night In, but felt too ill. My husband brought water and a Luna Bar up to bed with me, thinking that I had just overdone it that day with the kids and all the stress. But I couldn’t shake my feeling.

I texted with two of my best girlfriends: One, whom I was supposed to watch at mile 6 of the Broad Street run today and another with whom I texted about our weekends, and often just send lovey-dovey goodnight texts of love and support. I told both of them about how I was feeling. I apologized, in advance, if I couldn’t make the race today. My friend insisted I not even try. I have the best friends.

I had a fitful sleep last night, despite enjoying sleeping so close to my husband for the first time in years. In our King, we usually don’t see each other, let alone interact, in the middle of the night; but in this full bed, I found myself soothed by his arm, heavy with slumber, slung over me through the night.

Yet my dreams were haunting; I dreamed, over and over again, about my C-Sections. I dreamed of future operations, all of which made my blood pressure drop, making me feel like I would pass out. Over and over I dreamed about being faint or fainting.

And then, at 5:30 this morning, I woke up to the sound of my daughter playing around. Typically, I stay in bed, letting her play by herself. But this morning I got up. I do not know why, but I got up. And when I got up, I heard a beeping. An alarm sounding.

I woke my husband. He went downstairs to investigate.

It was the Carbon Monoxide detector in our flooded basement.

We called 911.

Within one minute a police officer arrived. We were told to wake the baby.

Within 3 minutes the fire trucks appeared.

The fireman walked through our door, opened the door to our basement, and his alarm sounded.

“Evacuate,” he said with alarm.

Our house was filled with Carbon Monoxide, a problem created by the flood.

We had to leave, I was in pajamas and no shoes.

Thankfully, we have the nicest neighbors in the world. They brought out blankets, welcomed our children into their homes and in front of their Disney Junior on TV sets. But I still felt woozy. Lightheaded. Dizzy.

I mentioned to this to the fire team and they called the EMTs.

Upon evaluation, my blood pressure was low, and I had to be taken to the hospital in an ambulance. I was still barefoot, in a wife beater and purple flannel pants and scared.

I called my mom using the EMT’s phone and she followed us to the hospital.

I got an IV and EKG en route. My BP was low.

I got to the hospital, the same place where I’ve spent far too much of this year, and found out that I had CO in my blood. I stayed on oxygen while I waited for my family to be brought in for evaluation. My kids, brave as can be, had their blood taken and we found out that their levels were worse than mine, and needed oxygen treatment.

Had our alarm not had gone off,

had I not chosen to wake up and get out of bed at an uncharacteristic time,

we would have died from Carbon Monoxide poisoning in our sleep.

CHECK. YOUR. CARBON. MONOXIDE. DETECTORS.

Thankfully, we are safe. We have a place to stay. Someone brought shoes to the hospital for me.

I left wearing pajama pants and Chanel ballet slippers,

but I was able to walk out on my own two feet.

I am thankful for my neighbors. I am thankful for my friends. I am thankful for my family. I am thankful for the Police, the Firefighters, the EMTs. I am thankful for the doctors and nurses at the hospital.

Most of all, I am thankful for my life.

Check your carbon monoxide detectors. Hug your kids. Be nice to your neighbors.

And if you have anything precious on the floor of your basement, and plumbing that leads into your basement, move it upstairs.

Peace, love and thanks,

B

A Birth Story-My Sequel: Part 3

When we left off, I was being wheeled into the OR in the afternoon for a surprise C-Section, 4 days early, at 38.5 weeks and scared as hell.

I am a very superstitious person and look for signs all around me. During the scary, unknown part of my first unexpected C-Section with my daughter, I was feeling helpless and hopeless and the doctor said “The baby is about to come out” and my Nanny’s favorite song, Desperado, began to play in the OR radio. That was a good sign and even though my daughter had been in distress, her chord around her neck twice, she was OK. Because my angel had told me so.

So for my second go-round, I had my husband in my lucky socks, and was looking for similar signs. First, I liked the date. I am a numbers person and like that 2 is my mom’s lucky number, 4 is my sister’s and added together, 6 is my dad’s. That seemed to me like a good sign.

The second sign was my med student, Anna, who stood by my side the entire time, was named Anna. Anna is a very symbolic name for me, as it represents the name of my other angel, my Superman, for whom my daughter was named. Then I met my new anesthesiologist. His name was William. That was the name of my husband’s late grandfather. I felt like this was another sign, that our angels had gathered together to watch over my surgery and this birth.

The final sign was that William’s last name was Shepherd. Dr. Shepherd. McDreamy from Grey’s Anatomy. That had to mean something.

But despite these comforts, I was still scared to the point of shaking uncontrollably. And dear, sweet Anna, Doctor Anna, hugged me and held me, and told me I was in good hands, and she even hugged me, as I had to curl my spine over in order to receive my epidural. After having explained my aversion to my previous spinal, Dr. Shepherd decided to give me an epidural instead of the one shot spinal, and it was a much slower onset, which I preferred greatly. They also gave me pain medicine and some anxiety meds through my IV, something that he equated to a glass of wine (as I did not want to feel too out of it, but definitely needed to take the edge off).

At this point my OBGYN came in to “Get the party started” and because an epidural works differently than a spinal, I could feel so much for. So much so that I heard them say, “Time to insert the catheter” and I shouted, over the blue screen that they had put up between my face and surgical site, “I can still feel my vagina!”

The next part is somewhat of a blur; they opened me up, my husband was allowed back in with me, my blood pressure kept dropping, I kept feeling scared, I literally felt myself lift off the table as they yanked the baby out,

I kept hearing them talking about things like seeing a hand and adhesions and blood and I loved it and hated it all at once

and then,

all of a sudden,

a cry.

I had a son.

And I looked at the clock. My daughter was born at 2:22 am, a hard time to beat in my book (for my lucky number is 11, so 22 is double 11. I know that I’m weird, by the way.)

My son was born at 4:11pm. 4/11 is my birthday. Could not have gotten better.

And speaking of numbers, he came out weighing 7 lbs 12 oz. The exact same weight as my daughter.

What is more interesting is that he was 7lbs 12 oz at 38.5 weeks, while she was full term at 40; so apparently my uterus hands out an eviction notice at just that size. They were only a half inch a part, him being 21.5 inches to her 21. I make solid babies, it seems.

And, because I had asked for it beforehand, they brought him to me, and I saw that he had fair hair and a cleft in his chin (like many of the men in my family) and I swear when our faces touched he smiled.

And then the world disappeared. I know this sounds like one of those hokey, cliche things, but everything else melted away as my husband, son and I cuddled up, as the doctors were still working to sew me up, and we sang to him. We held him and sang a song that my PopPop made up for us years ago.

Mommy loves the baby, 

Daddy loves the baby, 

Everybody loves the little boy. 

I remember wanting to be out of the OR, and holding him in my arms, and eventually we got there and he latched on immediately as I held him and nursed him and sent a text to my friend saying “I have a son.”

My pregnancy with my son was not nearly as magical or enchanting as that with my daughter, but I must say, the birth and the time right thereafter was extraordinarily special.

But there was one milestone left to happen; we needed my daughter to meet her brother. She had been having a great time at her best friend’s house, so much so that she peed her pants in all the excitement. So I am proud to say that my daughter met her baby brother for the first time wearing her boyfriend’s Cars underpants and cargos.

And at around 6 o’clock that evening, my little girl, who suddenly seemed so big, walked into the recovery room and over to her brother and said, “Hi baby. I love you. Don’t cry. Maybe I can carry him?”

And then there were four.

I will never, in all my life, forget the feeling of wholeness that that moment provided for me. All of my fears about not being able to love a second child, or a boy, washed away. I was, instead, swathed in rich, deep feelings of love and gratitude.

So that’s how it all went down. It was not easy, but it was beautiful.

And I am never doing it ever, ever again.

So instead of saying The End to this story, I will say something far more appropriate:

The beginning…

Somethings (and #febphotoaday/16)

16. Something New

On May 31, 2008,

as the saxophone played,

I held onto my dad’s arm

and walked, down a peony-lined runner, towards my forever.

I had something old,

a headpiece made of champagne and ivory seed pearls,

worn by my Nanny on her wedding day;

I had something borrowed,

the tiny, gold wedding band, that had been on my Mommom‘s own finger when she and my Poppop said their vows;

I had something blue,

a bracelet in honor of my Superhero;

and then I had Fancy shoes. Fancy new shoes.

And while they’ve now been worn,

and have scuffed soles

and loose threads,

and so many dance steps trailing behind them as distant memories,

they will always be my

something new.

An excerpt

from last summer:

Today was a typical day at the beach.

You know, it was hot.

We read.

We relaxed.

And braced for a tornado.

What?

You mean you’re not used to doing that at 4pm on a Sunday?

Yeah, neither are we.

When the news broke of the Tornado Warning,

my Poppop kicked into high gear.

I was otherwise occupied,

you know,

pumping,

so, when I answered his call downstairs,

I found him in a pitch black family room,

the shades all drawn,

the electronics all turned off,

and the family being herded down the stairs into the lower level den.

We were twister-ready.

But, there was still milk needing to be pumped.

I was not, however, allowed to stay upstairs to do my pumping in privacy,

you know, with the tornado and all,

so I ended up standing in the downstairs bathroom,

pump in hand,

as the thunder roared around us.

My grandparents, husband, baby and two dogs all huddled on the couches,

waiting for the storm to pass.

I listened, from my perch in the powder room,

as they gave the baby kisses,

sang her songs,

made her giggle,

and told her how much they loved her.

And as I stood there, watching them from a distance,

my heart filled up with incredible love for the people in that room.

I peaked out and saw my baby sitting on my Poppop’s knees,

as he cooed with her,

telling her how pretty she looked,

which, of course, made her smile and beam.

Smart girl.

My heart swelled,

as I felt so grateful that my grandparents were able to share this special moment with my daughter;

a little moment,

so precious,

and pure,

and wrapped up,

in the coziness of a family room,

a sanctuary

in the storm.

“Listen, you guys,” I called from the bathroom.

“You need to take really good care of yourselves, because I fully expect you to be at her Bat Mitzvah.”

“It’s funny,” my Poppop replied. “Just as you said that, I was sitting here thinking, boy do I wish I could be here to see her grow up.”

And then I cried.

They didn’t know it,

but I stood,

in the bathroom,

with the breast pump,

in the raging thunderstorm,

with tears streaming down my cheeks.

I hope,

with all of my heart,

that my grandparents do get to see my daughter grow up,

and turn from a little baby

into a little lady.

But, no matter where the years take us,

I know that we have shared some amazing things together already.

We’ve shared family dinners,

and walks on the boardwalk,

shopping sprees,

and sing-alongs.

And, just today,

we’ve shared a small,

quiet

room,

during a storm.

And now, on this less stormy, but no less love-filled summer evening,

as I’m once again under the same roof as these people whom I hold so dear,

I can’t help but to feel grateful,

that my cherished grandparents are getting to see their little baby

turn into a big girl.

Today, as she greeted them by name;

as she scooted up and down the street on her little ride-on train;

as she stuffed her face with spaghetti and meatballs;

as she held our hands and took steps across the sand;

I realized that this year has taken us to a most wonderful place.

As has this weekend.

There is no place like the beach.

There is no place like home.

Scenes from the Nest

Three things you should know about me:

I love feathers (yes, you already know that, but I am just further emphasizing my love for all things bird.)

I love my family. (which, I mean, duh.)

I love photos.

More accurately, I am obsessed with photos.

I love taking pictures. I love looking at pictures. I love reminiscing over pictures.

So yes,

feathers, family and photos.

And, it is on my happiest of days that I am able to combine all three of these treasured things.

Last month, I had the distinct pleasure of doing just that.

My husband, my daughter and I shared the best afternoon we’ve shared since my daughter’s very first afternoon on this earth.

I exaggerate not,

when I say that I still get butterflies in my belly when I think of this most special day;

Our day at Little Nest Portrait Studio.

You see, it was not until my little birdie was ten months old that we decided to take her for professional photos.

Much like her mama, my girl loves posing, mugging for the camera and playing dress-up,

so we figured that it was time for some of her most delicious,

model-y moments to be captured on film.

And so, after seeing many fine examples of the gorgeous, unique, texturally rich and vibrant photos from other Little Nest photo shoots, we decided to migrate there for our first professional photo endeavor.

And oh, how glad I am that our little posey birdie led us to this most special of Nests.

I could go on and on to you about how beautiful the studio was,

how kind everyone was to us,

how amazing their backdrops were,

how much time they spent with us, listening to our story in order to capture exactly what we wanted to from our shoot;

Believe me, on

and

on,

I could go.

But, I think that these photos speak for themselves.

Yes. That right there? That’s my girl.

You have never before seen a photo of her.

I have kept it that way on purpose.

Yet, now, I can’t help but to share these works of art.

That is the smile I’ve written about,

the eyelashes that make me weak in the knees,

the dress that was mine, that I wore as a child,

the necklace that my Poppop bought my Mommom on the 60th anniversary of their very first date….

all captured perfectly,

beautifully,

richly,

for us to treasure forever.

I can tell you right now that I will never, ever forget that day.

I will always remember how Alison, our incredible photographer, created color and light right before our eyes.

I still smile when I think of how my daughter struck pose after pose after pose, smiling non-stop,

like a real, professional adult model.

I still feel immense pride when I see my daughter referred to as a free spirit, two words that I hope will define her throughout her life.

I will forever treasure the images of my husband feeding his little dear her very first bites of cupcake.

With the help of Alison and the amazing studio,

our family made memories–

made magic–

all within the sanctity of our own little nest.

So, really there are four things you should know about me:

I love feathers. I love birds. I love nests.

I love my family. I love the way that my daughter crawled around and whipped her head around to strike a pose, lifting her arm in the air above her head, her eyes twinkling with light. I love how my husband sat in my baby’s cupcake crumbs and told her how much he loves her.

I love photos. I, most especially, love these photos.

And,

I can’t wait to return to that most special of Nests, the Little Nest, for more afternoons of magic,

and modeling

and pure wonder.

Idle Idol

Last week,

a funny thing happened on my way to my Facebook.

An old friend from childhood, with whom I’ve recently reconnected, posted a clever “status update” about our High School Senior Year Superlatives. In her status, she mentioned being a finalist in the category of “Most Likely to be the Next American Idol”.

I read it,

and then read it again,

and then stopped,

read it again,

scratched my head,

and said to myself, “Wait. I think I won that.”

Now, let me just say this: this never would have been a question 16 months ago.

My pre-pregnancy, pre-motherhood memory was remarkable (pardon me for being boastful, but to this day, I can still remember my whole two lines from my first grade play.

Oh, you want to hear them?

Nah.

Really?

Nah.

Are you sure?

Okay, you twisted my arm.

“We’ve done symphonies, operas, concerts, duets–you think we’d be able to pay all our debts.”

I guess I should have mentioned that our first grade play was Of Mice and Mozart. I was Mozart’s Wife. I had toilet-paper-roll white ringlets and a black beauty mark on my cheek. See! I remember things! Or, I did.)

In any case, my motherhood memory is a bit shakier.

So, when I saw this post about our Senior Superlatives, I was sure that I had won Next American Idol as my superlative.

But, then I wasn’t so sure. I called my parents to ask them.

“Yes, you won that.” They Said.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.” They said.

“Positive???”

“I think you did.”

See?

So I turned to J.

I sent her a long, crazy rant of bbms, asking her if she remembered if I had won this or not.

She said that I did.

But, again, was not positive.

So, being the amazing friend that she is (Hi, J!), she dug up the proof.

Ready for it?

Funny, right?

Also funny is that this award did not come out of nowhere;

I am a singer, and have been performing since I could talk. I acted and sang and danced in school plays and concerts and recitals for my whole young life. So, naturally, when American Idol premiered, I was hooked. I needed to get on that show.

(Not to mention, I had just Macarena’d with Season 1 Runner-Up Justin Guarini at my sister’s Bat-Mitzvah–he was a hired dancer for the event, about 2 minutes before his debut on Idol. ‘Twas meant to be.)

And so, when Fox announced that Idol would be continuing for Season 2, I decided that I would audition. I picked out my outfit (jeans that laced up the legs, an embellished tunic, a side braid, green eyeliner…you know…my usual garb. ), rehearsed my song tirelessly (I was going to sing “Holding Out For a Hero”), and booked a 4am train ticket to New York City. My mom, my friend and her mom set off, on our middle of the night trek to the city. Unfortunately, our Idol dreams were crushed as soon as we arrived at our destination, as we immediately found out that the Producers had given out 2am wrist bands to the hopefuls who had camped out for days in front of auditions building. Our chances were over before they ever began. Our trip was not, however, a complete bust; we got to eat a delicious hotel brunch, shop at Century 21 and my friend and I even got to sing Kelly Clarkson’s “A Moment Like This” on the New York City News.

So while I have yet to fulfill my promise of being the Next American Idol, I do get to practice my singing daily.

Like last night, for instance, as I was driving my daughter home from a visit to Mommom and Poppop’s.

She screamed, and I sang over to, to try to calm her down, while simultaneously keeping her awake. If you’re a mom, you so know what I’m talking about.

So while I dug through my repertoire,

singing everything from Itsy Bitsy Spider

to Bacio Me Bambino

to Werewolf Bar Mitzvah

I felt a little bit like a crazy person,

and a little bit like an idol.

Because, guess what?

It worked.

My singing soothed her. She stayed up. She started to coo.

And no, this kind of singing doesn’t make me the big bucks, or give me worldwide renown,

it gives me exactly what I need;

a smiling, happy baby.

And that’s the best superlative of them all.

 

Proud

“That was a good blog today.”

-My Poppop, when he called to wish his honey a happy 7 month birthday.

I’m so so proud to have him as my biggest fan.

And as my Poppop.

 

Top Chef, Top Shmef

Except, not really.

I am still (insanely, insanely) jealous that my parents got to eat a decadent dinner,

cooked by none other than the new Top Chef, Kevin Sbraga.

Oh, and you know the winning duck dish that he made last night,

the one that put him over the edge and secured his victory?

Yeah, my mom had that. She said it was the best duck she has ever eaten.

I said,  “Wahhhh, why didn’t you take meeeeee with you?”

She said, “Grow up, you baby!”

(Actually, she said, “Don’t worry, we will all go back together, you will LOVE it!” She’s so nice like that.)

Congrats to Kevin, a new winner and new daddy.

Congrats to my parents, for boosting themselves a little higher in my book o’ cool.

I still wish I had gotten to try that duck.

Oh, well. I will now drown my sorrows in the cake I am baking for Poppop’s 81st Birthday celebration, this evening.

And just in case you’re wondering the theme of tonight’s cake?

Singapore Slingers.

Duh.

Kings and Queens and Bishops, Too

Happy 30th Anniversary of your 51st Birthday,

Dear Poppop.

Not only are you the most precious of all Great-Grandfathers,

but you are also the King of Birthdays.

Wishing you a year of health, joy, happiness, peace,

onion rolls, hummus, talking Barbie dolls, upper-arm squeezes, baby kisses, orange sherbet, long, sunny beach days,

and, of course, many happy cocktail hours, with your Jack Daniels, straight up, rocks on the side, in a chilled martini glass.

We love you,

more than you’ll ever,

ever,

know.

Happy, Happy, Day, to you.

L’Chaim!

There’s No Place Like Home

Today was a typical day at the beach.

You know, it was hot.

We read.

We relaxed.

And braced for a tornado.

What?

You mean you’re not used to doing that at 4pm on a Sunday?

Yeah, neither are we.

When the news broke of the Tornado Warning,

my Poppop kicked into high gear.

I was otherwise occupied,

you know,

pumping,

so, when I answered his call downstairs,

I found him in a pitch black family room,

the shades all drawn,

the electronics all turned off,

and the family being herded down the stairs into the lower level den.

We were twister-ready.

But, there was still milk needing to be pumped.

I was not, however, allowed to stay upstairs to do my pumping in privacy,

you know, with the tornado and all,

so I ended up standing in the downstairs bathroom,

pump in hand,

as the thunder roared around us.

My grandparents, husband, baby and two dogs all huddled on the couches,

waiting for the storm to pass.

I listened, from my perch in the powder room,

as they gave the baby kisses,

sang her songs,

made her giggle,

and told her how much they loved her.

And as I stood there, watching them from a distance,

my heart filled up with incredible love for the people in that room.

I peaked out and saw my baby sitting on my Poppop’s knees,

as he cooed with her,

telling her how pretty she looked,

which, of course, made her smile and beam.

Smart girl.

My heart swelled,

as I felt so grateful that my grandparents were able to share this special moment with my daughter;

a little moment,

so precious,

and pure,

and wrapped up,

in the coziness of a family room,

a sanctuary

in the storm.

“Listen, you guys,” I called from the bathroom.

“You need to take really good care of yourselves, because I fully expect you to be at her Bat Mitzvah.”

“It’s funny,” my Poppop replied. “Just as you said that, I was sitting here thinking, boy do I wish I could be here to see her grow up.”

And then I cried.

They didn’t know it,

but I stood,

in the bathroom,

with the breast pump,

in the raging thunderstorm,

with tears streaming down my cheeks.

I hope,

with all of my heart,

that my grandparents do get to see my daughter grow up,

and turn from a little baby

into a little lady.

But, no matter where the years take us,

I know that we have shared some amazing things together already.

We’ve shared family dinners,

and walks on the boardwalk,

shopping sprees,

and sing-alongs.

And, just today,

we’ve shared a small,

quiet

room,

during a storm.