Mid-CenturyModernMoms

First Time Voter

Abe supposedly registered to vote through the Motor Voter Law when he received his license earlier this year (after his 18th birthday).  But this being the state with the most messed up Registry of Motor Vehicles AND living in a city that seems to make up its own rules as they go along....

Let's just say that when Mom went to check that Abe was on the voter rolls, he wasn't.

So Mom gets the voter registration form

Registering to Vote

You must be registered in order to vote. Qualifications: a citizen of the United States, a legal resident of Newton, and 18 years old on or before election day. (There is no waiting period). You must be registered to vote 20 days prior to an election in order to vote in that election. Download the Voter Registration Form from the Commonwealth of Massachusetts here You can register to vote either in person at the Election Commission Office, Room 106, Newton City Hall, or by mail. Mail-in voter registration forms are available at the Newton Free Library and at all branch libraries.

 and then the absentee ballot request form.

Absentee Ballots

Absentee ballots must be requested in writing and require an original signature. E-mail requests or faxes are not acceptable. For further information regarding absentee ballots click here Absentee ballots can be voted over-the-counter at the Election Commission, Room 106 of City Hall, 1000 Commonwealth Avenue, during regular office hours. Absentee ballots can also be obtained, and voted, through the mail: to request an absentee ballot, send a written request to the Election Commission. Please include in your request your Newton address, the address of where you would like the ballot sent, and the election(s) for which you require absentee ballots. Requests for absentee ballots may be made up until noon of the day before the election. (However, as a practical matter, if you want the ballot sent outside of Newton, you may want to request the ballot further in advance, so as to allow time for delivery.) It is possible to have a standing order so that absentee ballots for all the elections that you are eligible to vote in are sent are sent to you for up to one year.

Hmmmm.  Do you see a pattern here?  But Abe was interested in voting (once Mom brought up the issue) and finally he was home and the absentee ballot was also there.  But Abe didn't know much about any of the multitudes of races to be voted on. (And frankly neither did Ora.)

But Mom had saved pages from the local newspaper where the candidates had written position statements and gave them to Abe to read.   For instance:

Newton TAB School Committee endorsements: Our choice for our schools in 2010

Like a great baseball team, a great School Committee needs a mixture of players with different skills and abilities. Fortunately for Newton, the 2009 lineup of candidates is the strongest we’ve seen in years.

On Nov. 3, voters across the city will have the chance to choose from a roster of veterans and rookies as well as a business and finance expert, a structural engineer and a software executive — and in choosing our endorsements we have done just that: selected a mix of skills designed to serve the challenges we now face.

The TAB commends all the candidates for running this year and hopes those not elected next month find other ways to serve our school community. The selection was not easy, but here are our endorsements for your 2010-2012 Newton School Committee:

 And read them, he did.  And then he voted.  And we mailed in the ballot.

I'm so proud!!!

A Useful Kid to have around

Margalit is still being  held hostage by the big Boston hospital that she checked into last week to undergo a simple procedure.  Margalit should know that NOTHING is simple regarding her body, but especially that, if she drives herself to the hospital- she will ALWAYS be there MUCH longer than expected.  This has happened often enough to be a tried and true rule.

But she is still checking up on The Boy and The Girl, along with a host of other adults.

But in Ora's world, a disaster happened.  The TV decided to stop working.  But not so completely that you know that the TV died, no this is more complicated.  Part of the input via the cable (FIOS) works, (you can see the channel guide) but you can't watch anything on TV or worse, anything that was stored on the DVR!!!  

The TV showed something like this, but with different colors!!

So Margalit's Boy is a cabling guru.  He came over to take a look at the 2 loose cables hanging out and see if anything could be done.

But alas, nothing is easy in Ora's world and the Boy couldn't figure it out- not even after looking at the manual!!!  (And the other TV in the house, also on FIOS and DVR, works just fine!)

So we know that it's NOT the main router coming into the house.

So we descended into the dread world of Verizon customer support.

But once we actually got to a real-live (as opposed to computer response) person, things got better.  The Boy and the voice talked cable this and HDMI that and coax and....... And understood each other.  And made Ora's TV all better.

It turns out that Ora's cable box wanted a little vacation, just like Ora had last week and it needed to have its cables pulled and reset and whatever.

So all's well that ends well.  The Boy got a few bucks for 1/2 hours work, Ora got a working TV and the Boy is signed up as the resident TV geek- and everyone is happy (even Margalit from her hostage hospital bed).

Mom's back!

  
Ora is back from her wonderful adventure in Spain!!!  (pictures to follow)

Rosie squeezed her mom soooooo hard when they got together.  Rosie had an emotional rough week staying with her cousins.  She adores little Tree, but the parents, especially the mother N, produce a lot of stress.

These cousins are in the final stages of building a house- and of course, every detail must be perfect.  Well, the contractor finally had enough and quit.  Rosie and Tree were out apple picking and had to come home all in a rush.  That's all that I really know, but Rosie was very happy to be home into her own world.

Our cousins loved having Rosie stay with them.  But Rosie doesn't want this sort of thing to happen too often (once a year is okay).

Now for the pictures:

travelling business class to the way to go

Barcelona is lovely, but has some totally crazy buldings from its signature architech, Antonini Gaudi

La Pedera.  I think this looks like a droopy mushroom, but the curves are supposed to be able the sea.

 Gaudi's great cathedral, Sangra Famalia- still a work in progress after 80 years.  It will need at least 40 more to complete.

 The Barcelona signature frog/dragon at the entrance to Park Guell.

 

The chimneys of the Casa Batlio.  Gaudi almost never used straight lines for anything!!

Roman walls

Flamenco dancing  (but don't eat the supper buffet- I got food poisoning)

and lots of other interesting street sights.

 
 
 With friends on the southwest coast of Spain

Guadelest- a fortress

And then back to reality.
 

Home Alone

Margalit's kids are home alone.  Margalit is back in the hospital to try to figure out why she keeps having to go into the hospital.  Of course, what was supposed to have been 2 days at a major Boston hospital has now been extended to 8-9 days.  But the Boy and the Girl have been by themselves, with drop ins from lots of adults checking on them.

Ora can report that the house had not been destroyed and that the kids were not fighting with each other- although we won't talk about the pile of dirty dishes in the sink!

Even though Margalit's kids drive her absolutely crazy, they seem to have risen to the unfortunately more frequent occasion and are growing up.  Wow.

Hopefully, she'll be released soon, with some answers.  She is okay, but everything is just taking lots longer than it should.  And while Margalit is luxuriating in the spa known as Brigham & Womens, she has had more than her share of bloggable moments, mostly centered on the elderly roommates that she has had to endure.  It seems that if you are sick and old in the Boston area, you get a free pass to yell at any nurse or aide for any reason, preferably in a language other than English.  Regardless of what your original language is the ability to understand simple compounds in English is beyond the capabilities of her roommates.  The best was the Portuguese lady who didn't know that you had to push a button to answer the phone!  Margalit will hopefully be back at full strength in the coming weeks.  But meanwhile, the Boy and the Girl will continue to do her proud as they show their independence.

Hell's bells kitchen

My son Z-man graduated from culinary school last May.

I was/am so proud of him. But for all of his accomplishments in the kitchen in faraway collegeland, he would never -- and I mean NEVER -- cook for me.

In fact, if the subject came up, he got moody and sullen and sulky and generally unpleasant.

I found this to be a problem, since I spent a small fortune on his tuition. I mean, really. For all that it cost me for the last two years, I should get some kind of gourmet meal, doncha think?

Yeah, well. No.

I didn't fight it. After all, he was actually working in a restaurant kitchen. For real. So cooking at home would seem kinda like a busman's holiday.

But now? Business is bad all over, and he has been laid off (a subject for another day -- and oy, what a subject!).

As a result, I engaged in what I refer to a sneak attack.

Last night we planned to have spaghetti for dinner. I, however, have a particular aversion to marinara and prefer something less ... uh ... red. And so, from the aisles of the supermarket, I called him.

"What could we use to make something that I would like for the spaghetti?" I asked.

"Uh ... like alfredo?" he answered.

"No, more like garlic and olive oil or whatever."

"How 'bout capers and white wine?"

"YUMMM!"

I continued my shopping ... and got a text message.

"Get a lemon and parsley."

Two minutes later, I got another text.

"Also get mushrooms and peppers and whatever else you want in there."

I smiled.

Last night, my boy cooked for me.

It was delicious.

A Boyfriend, or my baby is growing up

When I picked Rosie up at camp 6 weeks ago, she was copiously crying.  Previous years, she had been sad to go, and there had been some tears shed, but nothing like this cascade.

So Mom, also an alumna of many years of summer overnight camp, hypothesized that there had been a BOYFRIEND!!!!

Of course Rosie completely denied that.

But I was pretty sure.  And then later, she admitted that there had been one, but he lived in Connecticut and it wasn't serious.  But I could see that there was a lot of IM-ing and texting and even talking on the phone going on.

A month after camp was over, Rosie tells me that a guy from Conn. was coming up to Newton to hang out with a bunch of camp kids.  But it wasn't her boyfriend.  Oh no, not at all.  So I said yes, that she could hang out with her friends that Sunday afternoon.

But then, I get a telephone call.  On the house phone.  It was a woman whom I had never met saying that she was Rosie's boyfriend's mother.

Oh.

And she was driving him up to see Rosie on Sunday.  Did I know about that?

Oh.  Not quite like that.

Okay, to make the long story shorter.  The mom drove the BF up (and then she went shopping for a dress for daughter's BM next month).  Ora got to embarass Rosie in talking to BF and then the kids went off to the train to hang out with other friends in Newton Center.  They weren't alone in the house (although when they got back they withdrew to a public/semi-private area and I think that I interuppted some lip locking) and a good time was had by all- without too much worry on a mom's part, because....

I know what goes on at camp.  Eek! (I met the hubbie there when I was 17!)

Today they're busy, but last fall was almost a killer.

La Petite, in her 22-year-old wisdom, has learned to put together her college apartment fairly quickly and get into the routines of classes and the school paper efficiently and effectively. This year it's a little more rocky than usual; she has a new roommate, and the guy who sublet the apartment all summer was, in La Petite's words, a slob. They're cleaning up after him, sorting out what the previous roommate took with her, and getting the new roommie moved in. Two weeks into classes, their home away from home is still a mess.

Last fall, however, was tougher. Emotionally tougher.

One of the first days back on campus, La Petite got a phone call from a close friend, sorority sister to her roommate. This young woman, let's call her "Mel", was emotionally fragile and often stayed with them when she needed moral support. This time, though, she wasn't calling for support. She quietly told La Petite that she was done coping, she had taken an overdose, and she wanted to say goodbye.

La Petite talked to her carefully, advised her to call an ambulance, and eventually found out what she had taken. She said goodbye, hung up, and called the police. She told them that Mel had taken aspirin, sounded despondent but not sleepy or ill, but probably needed medical help. Emergency services didn't fool around; they sent paramedics and an ambulance to Mel's place and a police officer to La Petite's to get her statement.

This situation ended safely; Mel lived to go through treatment and regain her health, both physical and emotional. La Petite and her roommate were lucky, too; they knew what to do about a suicide threat. They knew that no matter what, no matter how many times the threatener has "cried wolf," they needed to take it seriously. La Petite was upset, yet handled this with the calm of a seasoned counselor. She got all the information she could, and then called 911.

Parents of teens, college kids, and young adults, please have the suicide talk with your young ones. Most people who attempt suicide tell someone or send up figurative red flags that those close to them might read. Some who attempt really want to die; some want help and choose this method to get it. No matter what the motivation, these people are truly at risk of dying.

Teach your children, young and old, what to do if someone they know is talking of suicide. They could prevent a fatality. They could save a life.

A Sad Thought

Something happened last Saturday at shule (synagogue) that bothered me.

The background is that in the Jewish tradition, when a parent dies (at any age), the child is supposed to recite the Mourner's Prayer (called the Kaddish) for 11 months following the death.  I mean each day for 11 months.It needs to be said in the company of a religious quorum (a minyan).

This was certainly too much to expect of Abe and Rosie following Jim's death in May.  Especially since Abe attends a special needs residential school that doesn't go to services of any kind. And since I would have to drive Rosie every morning and she would still be late to school and I would be late to work.

A spouse is supposed to say Kaddish for one month, daily for the deceased spouse.  And I did that.  Rosie came with me a few times during that month, but only on weekends or days that school started late.

I had left it up to the kids' and their consciences about going to services and saying the prayer.  But on days that I was going to shule with them, I always make sure that they are in services (from outside talking to friends or reading) when it comes time to say the Kaddish.

So this past weekend, I go searching for the kids.  Rosie is sitting in the hallway, chatting with friends and she promises to come in before the prayer is said.  After some searching, I find Abe and get him to come along.  But I asked him "Don't you want to say Kaddish for Daddy?"  He didn't really answer me verbally, but I got the idea that he really was only doing it to make me happy.

Which made me sad.

Jim always believed that death was much further down the road, or he never felt the need, but he never tried to make amends with Abe for all of the bad times that they had together.  Yes, many of them were due to Abe's neurological problems, and there were also a lot due to Jim's neurological problems.  Towards the end, I got both kids to see that the brain mets (and maybe other conditions) were causing him to behave like he was.  I, and therapists and friends, even asked him whether he wanted to try to end things on a brighter note within the family (the answer was no).

So with Abe's response, all I could think of was that I was reaping what Jim had sowed- and it wasn't pleasant memories from at least one of his children.

A mother's sacrifice

There's an old joke that Jewish mothers don't let their baby boys play football or join the military.

Just for the record, none of my three sons played on the gridiron, but all of them -- when they turned 18 -- registered for the Selective Service.

It was a sobering moment for me each time. If, in fact, any of them had enlisted, I would have turned into a proud military mom. Scared out of my mind every second of every day, but nevertheless proud of my sons.

But they didn't. Two of my boys would have washed out on physical ailments (vision and asthma) and don't-ask-don't-tell issues. The third would have been a prime candidate, but today, at 28, would be on the edge of too old.

And I am -- in my selfish mommy way -- glad that I haven't had to wait at home, knowing my boys were in mortal danger in a war zone.

Other mothers, however, have done so bravely.

And tragically.

I recently viewed the traveling exhibit of the Vietnam War Memorial Wall, which  is a three-quarters scale replica of the Washington, D.C., memorial.

More than 58,000 names are etched into that wall. Although no one I actually know is listed there, I grew up during the Vietnam War era, and the war's impact on my generation was considerable.

As I stood at the apex and looked in both directions, I was struck by the pure volume of the loss of our young men during those years.

Flags, flowers, full uniforms and personal notes lined the walkway at the base of the wall.

One note I read in its entirety. It was a letter from a man to his baby brother, who had died in Vietnam at the age of 20. It was a heartfelt expression of grief. Yet there was hope, as he expressed his pride in his youngest sibling, who he was sure was up in heaven with their other brother, learning to fish.

My heart jumped into my throat when I read the last paragraph:

"You're a great-grandfather now ... can you believe it?"

I could barely breathe as I contemplated what that meant.

A mother sent her 20-year-old son into battle. That young man was also a husband and a father himself.

Now his name is etched on a wall, and his legacy lives on in three more generations.

And I am humbled.

Empty nests and satellite nests

She's coming home!!

Well, not quite home. And really, if my left-the-nester were returning, that sentence would be punctuated with a period. A flat, resigned, stoic period.

Not that I don't love my kids. I do. To bits. But the whole purpose of parenting is to produce productive, independent adults. And so far, I've produced one of those, with a second in the transitional phase of living in a house with other college students. More adult than living at home, less adult than living... well, like an adult. But he's getting there!

And I am behind this effort. Every step of the way. YAY, adulthood! YAY, independent life! YAY, charting your own course! YAY, finding a career that satisfies!

(And YAY! No more giant stinky shoes cluttering up the front hall, mysterious socks everywhere, condoms in the washing machine, tornado-swept kitchens, and other signs of adolescent inhabitants.)

But those are secondary -- yes, really -- to the satisfaction that comes of having successfully launched a child into the wide world out there, and watching them make their way. I get ENORMOUS amounts of pleasure from this. It's akin to watching them sleep as infants, only... bigger. So, if a child were to need to come home for one (desperate, temporary, traumatic) reason or another, it would be, for both of us, a regression.

So, okay, she's not coming home. But she is moving! After six years of living in a city an eight-hour drive away, Sarah (my eldest) is moving to a city a scant two-hour drive away. I could not be more delighted. It's an easy train trip. Weekend jaunts, either way, become more feasible. And I am totally psyched about helping her set up a satellite business here in Ottawa.

YAY, for kids who move! Closer, but not in.