The Sense of Being Loved

This morning at Family Services for Yom Kippur, the Rabbi introduced the subject of repentance by speaking of love, unconditional love. She suggested that we think of the person in our lives whose love we knew we could depend on, the person who loved us warts and all, without constraint

She was saying that God loves all of God’s creation as much as that person in our lives loved us. God’s love is the bedrock on which we stand. God’s love is what makes us yearn for goodness. God’s love is what makes repentance possible. And life.

My fourteen-year-old grandson put his head on my shoulder.

Like the rest of the congregation, I was looking for that person in my life who accepted me for who I was, the one who “got” me. I found her in my childhood memories, and I thanked her this morning for all the tiny acts of acceptance and approval that helped me grow into the person I am.

With her in mind, I prepared to engage myself in the future tasks I set for myself in this my 80th year. And then another dimension of this love came to me: my unconditional love for those grandchildren. It lightens my load and it gives me strength and faith in the future.

I don’t presume to fathom God’s love, but for a moment I let myself imagine that God might love me as much as I love those children. I felt a rush of energy.

For me, such love brings joy, and from that joy springs my determination to work toward a more just world, so that all people may sense God’s love for them.

Love. Joy. Justice. I wish us all a productive and useful year.

Whatever you want, Darling.

Have you ever noticed a look of resignation on a child’s face? That moment when a grandchild gives in, and does what the parents say. You can tell that submission isn’t easy. Something happens in the shoulders. The head may droop. The step may be slow.

Go to bed now, young lady.

Rise and shine, it’s time for school.

Brush your teeth. Right now.

Two more bites of beans, or no dessert.

Kiss Aunt Daisy. She loves you. (We know she smells funny.)

Hug your sister. She didn’t mean to trip you.

No more screen time for you,

And so it goes.

As a grandmother, I recognize and applaud the authority of the parents. Their job is to raise the children to be responsible adults.  But as a grandmother, I can sometimes feel the powerlessness that overcomes them.

So I have a little grandparent antidote. It’s called, “Whatever you want, Darling.” When I have a grandchild to myself and there are choices to be made, I set it up so that all the choices are acceptable, and then I say, “Whatever you want, Darling.”

If we get a snack on the way home from school, the choice of where to buy it is up to him. If we are taking a walk, the choice of route is up to her. Going to a bookstore? Make sure you are in the right section of the store. And then let the child choose. Are you listening to music in the car? Surely you can stand a few minutes of what sounds like bangs and crashes. The morning of a sleepover, it’s time for breakfast. Cold pizza or cereal? You know the phrase by now. The smiles in response are magic to me, and I believe that there’s no harm in letting a child choose between acceptable alternatives.

I know parents whose son was accepted in two good high schools. They were different, but both were fine and so to my surprise the parents let him choose. They declined to editorialize. It was his life. It was fascinating to watch this teenager square his shoulders and make his decision. Making this choice was his first steps toward adulthood.

Kids have to mind their parents. But we can give them a little taste of freedom—and responsibility–by setting things up so we can say, “Whatever you want, Darling.”

Letters to Camp

Two of my grandchildren left for summer camp at the end of June. One will be away for five weeks, the other for seven. Last year, I began what is now a tradition. I write them every day.

It’s the week of July 4, and I have missed only a couple of days. If you count up all the days they are in camp (take away four at the end of their time at camp) you get a total of 76 letters this summer. Missing a few isn’t the end of the world, I tell myself.

In the spirit of ’76, I’ll tell you why I attempt this crazy thing. You should know that I’ll be lucky to receive a two-sentence note from each of them over the course of the summer. It doesn’t matter.

What prompts this behavior? When I was in summer camp over 65 years ago, mail call made me tense. At that time, parents could send packages of goodies, and so campers who got a box were happy. Kids who got letters were pleased.  And those of us whose names weren’t called got an extra dose of loneliness. I don’t want those grandkids to experience such a moment. So I write letters.

How do I pull a letter together in a patch where nothing much is happening in my life? I write about my day. I write about the dog. I write about the weather. I type a short note, print it out, and decorate it with xxx’x and xox’x and hearts.  Believe me, these are not literary masterpieces. Sometimes I can’t help myself and the notes are silly. Last year the older one showed my letters to his bunkmates. I couldn’t tell if he were bragging or showing them my infernal silliness. So this year I asked him, now that’s turning 14, if he still wanted me to write a letter a day. “Yes, Grandma,” he said. And I knew he meant it.

I tell myself that I do it for them. But of course I do it for myself. This is my opportunity on these long summer days and nights to remind us both that we are always in each other’s world, even if we are hundreds of miles away. I’m approaching my 79th birthday, and so I feel the need to make sure that they feel my presence, even at such a distance. I want them to know that I’ll be thinking of them always.


Three Days in May, Birth of a Bookclub

Tuesday: My friend Tina was telling me about a little book group that she, and Leigh and her grandson Quinn had formed. I thought it was wonderful idea, three generations reading and talking about a book they shared. It fits right in to the ideology of  Unconditional Love.

Wednesday: I asked Lisa Von Drasek, curator of the Kerlan Collection and former librarian at Bank Street, if she thought the idea had any merit.

Thursday: Here’s the launch of the Grandparents Book Club. 

More to come.

Down the Generations at Ellis Island

I have a special feeling about Ellis Island. The very thought of it gives me chills. When I visited a decade ago with my friend Mary, we stood on the balcony, looking down at replicas of the benches on which the frightened immigrants sat, waiting to see if they could enter America. I wept.

In 1902 a woman named Rachel sat on such a bench, infant daughter in her arms. If the baby coughed or seemed a little warm, Rachel would be denied entry into America. Fortunately, Rosie didn’t cough, and they got in.

Rosie was my mother. The daughter of poor immigrants, and orphaned at the age of 17 with four little sisters to care for, she made her way. Working after school to support her little sisters, going to college, a Columbia PhD, and some fame as a regular columnist for the New York Post. She was a commanding presence. And she represents the glory of Ellis Island: America as a beacon to outsiders, immigrants, and refugees, creating new vistas for millions of families.

But there’s more to my story. On the evening before Mother’s Day, my older son and I are heading to Ellis Island.

David will be in his tux and I will be dressed to the nines. We will board a special ferry, get off at Ellis Island, and attend the gala fundraising event in that very hall. It’s because my son, the great-grandson of the woman who carried her baby through this room, is among the men and women being honored this year by the Ellis Island Association. Here is what qualifies you for this honor:

The ELLIS ISLAND MEDALS OF HONOR are awarded annually to a group of distinguished American citizens who exemplify a life dedicated to community service. These are individuals who preserve and celebrate the history, traditions and values of their ancestry while exemplifying the values of the American way of life, and who are dedicated to creating a better world for us all.


And what has he done to receive such an accolade? Well, he is the founder of StoryCorps, the largest archive of human conversations in the world. And what stimulated him to create this?

My mother. She was a great storyteller, and she sure had stories to tell. When he was 11 years old, David took his little tape recorder and interviewed my mother and her sisters about their childhoods. Then we moved to New York, and the tapes were lost. David asked after them for years. We never found them. So now, thanks to David and my mother, nobody ever need lose their conversations with elders.  We have StoryCorps.

This is the chain of the generations: an immigrant woman carries her baby through the portal of Ellis Island into America. Her great-great grandson stands to receive an honor in that room.

I will be granddaughter, daughter and mother on the eve of Mother’s Day, and I will weep that night—tears of pride in my son, gratitude to the grandmother I never knew, and appreciation of my outrageous mother.

Mother’s Day in America is full of flowers and brunches eaten in noisy restaurants. Perhaps we mothers might take a moment to consider the chain of our mothers. It reaches back in history, and embraces the future.

Happy Mother’s Day

The 10 Commandments for New Grandparents

1. Praise the new parents. Repeat the praise.

2. Don’t like the name? Never complain.

3. Never criticize your daughter-in-law. Ever.

4. Remember that you are no longer in charge.

5. They aren’t doing it the way you did? Relax. It’s their turn.

6. House a mess? Don’t say a word. Nothing to eat? Pack a snack.

7. In a crisis, stay calm and hold the baby.

8. Sleep-deprived new parents are also fussy babies: give them love and acceptance.

9. When things get tense, get out of the house.

10. Complain to your friends, not your kids.

Torah Practice

Sitting at the end of the table, with the tutor on my right and my grandson to my left, I watch and listen as he prepares for his Bar Mitzvah. It’s time to prepare the Torah portion. He’s a serious child, always has been, and he attends to the singing and the reading with concentration. He surprises us by his sweet voice. He’s 12 ½ and that voice may change by the time of the event, but now the notes are soft and clear. My heart turns.

I feel my father’s presence at the table. My dad was dead long before Benji was born. In fact, he died just months before Benji’s father’s Bar Mitzvah. I remember telling my son Josh’s tutor, a rabbinic student, that my dad was on the brink of death. She suggested that we could do a quick ceremony in the Coronary ICU while my father was still alive. Of course not. Josh must have a proper service and a party.

I remember thinking, as we drove home after that sweet, but sad (for me) ceremony and the party, “We did it!” I knew then that my life and the life of our family would suffer pain and change. I feared for my future. But my son’s future I began to imagine with joy.

Now, 35 years later, I see how things worked out. In some way, my grandchildren feel like the gifts I received in recognition of surviving those years.

We are at the table. Benji is chanting the first section of his Parsha, struggling to bind together the melody and the words. My father, a man who knew the entire Torah by heart and sat in synagogue shaking his head when he heard a mistake from the Torah reader, is sitting beside me. He’s not judging Benji’s errors. He’s singing softly with him. He knows that this beautiful boy has a soul he would embrace.

Rules? What Rules?

The phone rang at 7:30 one Saturday morning. “Hi, Grandma.” It was my son, and the phone was on speaker. His kids were listening.  “You never let me watch Jaws when I was a kid, right?” “Oh, yes,” I replied. Phone silence while his six-year-old and nine-year-old took this in.  “Can I watch it now?”  He asked. “When is your birthday?” (I knew the answer). “December 5,” my son replied (he’ll be 52). “You can watch Jaws after your birthday.” “OK, Grandma, thank you.” We hung up.


Who sets them, who enforces them, and how do we grandparents deal with rules? I’ve learned a lot during the years I was writing Unconditional Love, talking to grandparents, parents, and grandchildren. Parents must set rules and try to get their children to follow them. We need to be mindful of those rules, but we also have the joy of offering choices to our grandchildren, all of which are fine with us. So it feels to them as if there were no rules.

This weekend I was with some grandmothers whose grandchildren visit overnight. One proudly told me that there’s a sign in her kitchen, “Abuela has no rules.” The other told me that her grandchildren were delighted with the fact that when they visit Oma there are no rules. The children relish the freedom they experience when they sleep over. If they want to stay in their pajamas all day, that’s fine. And if it’s Cheerios in bed for dinner, that’s also OK.

What they may not notice is the order that lies beneath their sense of freedom.

It’s not really No Rules. The kids know that they have to be good. They can’t hit each other. They can’t throw things. If they take off their shoes at home, they are likely to shed their footwear when they get to Grandma’s.  No Rules really means, “I’m fine with the choices I’ve offered you, honey.” Children get to choose among good alternatives. Who cares where dinner is eaten, so long as the cereal isn’t spilled. Who cares what’s worn, so long as it is warm and comfy.

That’s how it is when my grandchildren stay with me.

So when my son invokes my authority, in order to stop his kids from watching one of the scariest movies ever made, it means something to them. He could have just put his foot down. But invoking my authority made it easier for him to the protective father he is.

That’s a splendid use of Grandma rules, don’t you think?

Our Hill of Beans

I knew my 6-year-old granddaughter wanted to cook with me, but the opportunity was hard to find. I worry about hot pans and heated ovens, knives that are sharp and liquids that spill.

One Sunday afternoon it happened. Her TV time had run out. She wanted more, and I couldn’t let her. Her mom was away and her father was at the supermarket. I stood in front of the TV so that she couldn’t see the screen. Her eyes were narrowed, and her mouth was turned down. She was angry. She strode into the playroom and jumped on the couch, arms folded. “You’re mad at me,” I said. “That’s OK, but there’s no more television.” “Humpf.”

We sat in silence for a few minutes and then I had a brainstorm. “Want to help me fix the beans?” She sat up, interested. I had brought haricots vert for dinner. I love that bean. It’s thin and tasty with hardly takes any cooking.

“Come,” I said, “let’s snap the beans.”

What child could turn down such an invitation? She followed me.  I washed the beans and put them on the kitchen table between us. I showed her how to snap the nasty tip of the bean. She liked it, but then commented that it would be faster if we had a knife and just chopped them all off at once. At that moment I had a brainstorm.

“Oh, no,” I said, “for hundreds of years grandmothers and granddaughters have been sitting together, snapping the ends off the beans. Even in the time of George Washington.” Mazie was interested. “Even when grandmas wore long dresses down to the ground and granddaughters wore aprons.” Now I had her. We snapped in peace. As the pile of snapped beans grew, Mazie gave me a look. “Could I try one?” “Sure,” I said (they were well washed). She liked it. Could she have another? Of course.

Then I suggested that she try a third and really taste it, so that she could compare the taste of a raw bean with the taste of the bean we would cook for dinner. I told her that soon I’d bring peas for us to shell. She could taste them raw and cooked. And in the summer we might even try a tiny bit of raw corn, and then compare it to the cooked.

Later, at dinner, my granddaughter tried the cooked bean. Oh, did it taste good, with just a little salt and butter. Then she had another. And another.

After dinner, she and her brother were allowed to watch one TV show before bath time. Mazie took the pile of leftover beans with her. She came back with an empty bowl.

There’s nothing much to this story: an old lady, a little girl, and a pile of beans. But how often, in this time of screens and apps, do we have a chance to snap and taste and do a bit of time travel together?

The Gin Game

I had lost him. My grandchild was nine years old, and suddenly he wasn’t mine any more.

We had been so close. I saw him every week of his life. We went to the beach on our winter vacation, and when he was a toddler, he slept in crib in my room, so we could have breakfast together before the parents woke up.  Later, we would stretch out next to each other on our chaises and comment on the shape of the clouds as they flew by.  Now he didn’t come to sit with me on the beach, and he didn’t want to sleep in my room.

I couldn’t understand what I had done, and I was miserable. The last dinner was a cookout on the beach. I sat at the table with his mother. “This was such a great trip,” she said. “You think so?” Tears filled my eyes. She looked surprised. “I’ve lost Benji. He doesn’t want to sit with me on the beach. He wouldn’t stay in my room. I don’t know what happened.”

“He’s growing up,” she said. “I know that, but I’m lost,” I said. “You’ll just have to up your game,” she told me.  I had no idea how.

Our plane was delayed the next day, and we had hours in the airport. So the parents took the children into the gift shop. Benji came out with a deck of playing cards.

“Want to play gin, Grandma?” I nodded, shuffled, dealt. We played all the way home. That was the year of gin rummy. I kept a rolling score on a pad of paper, and we played every week. After an hour of cards, he was ready to talk again. By the end of that year, he got tired of the game, even though he was winning by hundreds of points.

But I was the winner. I got him back. It only took a gin rummy deck and a little card sense.