Aunt Tooty was one of three sisters who immigrated to the United States just before the Russian revolution took place. Along with Ida and Tilly came Paulie; they were said (by their own account) to be the most beautiful, talented and sought-after girls in their shtetl. I believe it. The way they sewed and danced and laughed together, who wouldn’t want to marry them? Besides, what other girls had the courage to secretly board a train and run away in search of a better life, as the three of them had when they were teenagers? For three weeks, until they were returned home, their mother thought they were dead. The three sisters were regal, imposing women. Tall and erect, their hair was swept up on their heads just like the empress’s. They were formidable ladies who knew how to make themselves heard, noticed and respected.
But it was Aunt Tooty to whom I was truly drawn when I wanted a grandmother’s love. It was to Aunt Tooty’s house on Richmond Street in Philadelphia that I always wanted to go. It was Aunt Tooty’s large hands and long fingers I wanted to feel caress me whenever I felt sad or scared.
Her house was really an apartment behind my uncle’s appliance store. I loved the sitting room, with its bric-abrac, teacups on doilies, silver inkwell on the writing table and sepia photographs, including one of my mother as a child with a gigantic bow in her black hair. I loved the smell of chicken soup simmering in a pot in the kitchen and the sound of Aunt Tooty pounding pastry on the wooden breadboard. I loved hearing her humming Yiddish songs as she danced around the room with me standing on top of her lace-up shoes. But most of all I loved the armoire drawer I slept in when I stayed at Richmond Street. It was the bottom drawer of a huge piece of furniture from “the old country” that pulled out to create a perfect sleeping nest for a three-and-a-half-year-old. Lined with a deliciously soft eiderdown and fluffy pillows such as you only find in Europe, that tiny space made me feel absolutely safe and loved. In the evening when I grew sleepy, Aunt Tooty tucked me in to my special bed chamber, and in the morning when I woke, she was there to greet me, her ample bosom already adorned with a cameo, a lace handkerchief tucked inside her dress for emergencies.
It was in just that place on one such morning that I awoke to my beloved Aunt Tooty singing, “I have a surprise for you!” Lifting me out of my drawer, she danced me around the room and then sat me in her lap. “You have a new baby brother!” she said. “Isn’t that wonderful news?”
I knew that my mother was going to have a new baby, and I understood vaguely that its arrival was imminent when my father took me to Aunt Tooty’s. I also knew that everyone waited with bated breath for it to be a boy. Mom was forty and had two daughters already, it was the least God could do for her. But I wasn’t sure that it was wonderful news. I’d wanted the baby, and I was happy that my mother and he were safe. Still, what if Aunt Tooty loved him more than me? What if he got to sleep in the drawer, my drawer, and I had to be relegated to the couch, or worse, a bed! What if I could no longer dance on my Aunt Tooty’s feet or if she stopped slipping me extra freshbaked rugela or humentashen because she was too busy cooing over my new baby brother?
I needn’t have worried. Aunt Tooty knew exactly how a little girl might react to news of a special sibling. “Now, you know,” she said, pointing to my drawer-bed, “this is your special place when you come to see me. This isn’t someplace anyone else can have when they come here. So don’t think you can give this drawer to your little brother when he is old enough to sleep here. I’ll fix a nice drawer for him too, but not this one. Oh, no, this one is just yours.
Is that okay, shana?” she asked. (I loved when she called me shana; she told me it was Yiddish for “pretty”. Then she swooped me into her arms and, humming a Yiddish melody, danced me into the kitchen for some milk and mundelbrot. The smell of simmering soup already permeated the little room. Pulling the lace hanky from her bosom, I began to suck my thumb, fingering her cameo with my free hand. The scent of her talcum reminded me of babies.
“When can I see my new brother?” I asked. I was ready to meet the long-sought-after son who I knew would never take my place, not in the drawer and not in Aunt Tooty’s heart. “When can I see my new baby?”
“Today!” she said. “But first let’s put away your bed. Next time you come, I want it to be all ready for you.” She handed me a bag full of homemade cookies and I, in turn, relinquished her handkerchief. Together we prepared and stowed my bed, then went into the sepia sitting room to await the sound of my father’s big, black Buick, the sight of my mother and the squalls of my new baby brother.
Elayne Clift
If It’s Tuesday
Few things are more delightful than grandchildren fighting over your lap.
Doug Larson
From the kitchen I hear the crash and the baby’s wail. “Oh my gosh!” I shout as I reach the scene in the living room. The bouncer is upended, baby and all, and her two-year-old brother stands beside it, wide-eyed, lips quivering. I pull the baby into my arms and check her body for welts and bruises. All clear. Hugs and kisses calm her, and I turn my attention to the culprit, who stretches his arms upward.
“Up,” he cries. His eyes fill with tears. “Up.”
I sweep him into my free arm. “It’s all right, lovey,” I say between kisses. “You have to be gentle with baby sister; you could hurt her.”
It is Grandma day at my house, and I’m hoping my grandson’s rambunctious activity is a result of Easter candy and not his recent second birthday.
I am not the kind of grandparent I intended to be. After raising five children, I planned to model this phase of life after my mother, who defined her grandmotherly intentions days after my first child was born. “I will not babysit. In fact, I’ll be happy to hire a baby-sitter for you, but I will not baby-sit.”
There was no doubt my mother loved the children, and they loved her, but all were content to sit across the table from one another sipping tea and eating oatmeal cookies for an hour twice a week. There was no diaper changing, lap sitting or neck nuzzling in my mother’s house. Just short, polite visits and occasional dinners, always with me in attendance, the keys to the car in my pocket in case someone forgot the rules.
It worked for my mother, and I imagined it working for me. But when my son placed my first grandchild in my arms, I fell in love. Defenses melted, and the hardness in me turned to mush.
“Do I have to give him back?” I asked.
My waking hours following the birth of this baby were filled with a longing like one feels for a new love. Dropping by for baby hugs became part of my daily routine. It was a gift to hold this new little life close and breathe in his newness, to watch his face when he slept and his eyes wander around the room when he was awake. I couldn’t get enough of him.
And so when it was time for my daughter-in-law to return to work, I found myself offering to baby-sit one day a week.
“Are you sure?”
I wasn’t really, and I thought of telling them I’d changed my mind. What are you thinking? I asked myself. This is your time. You’ve raised your children, cut back on work. You’re free. You have time to write, read, do whatever you want. Don’t you remember how old you are?
“I’ll give it a try,” I told my son and his wife. “We’ll see how it goes, whether it’s too much.”
That was the beginning of our Tuesdays together. They belonged to little Gordie and me. Everything else was put aside—appointments, phone calls, bills. I fed, diapered and cooed. I reveled in his smiles and tickled him into giggles. We played peek-a-boo and so-big and read Goodnight Moon. I searched his gums for budding teeth and watched as he took his first wobbly steps between the couch and coffee table, applauding himself when he reached his goal. We went to the beach and threw rocks in the water and went “so high” on the swings in the park. We stopped at the bakery and ate cookies before lunch. I heard his first words. And then words formed sentences.
The mother/disciplinarian in me from years ago no longer exists. I stand by calmly as he empties the ice tray in my refriger
ator or the bowls from a kitchen cabinet. I get down on my knees with him to wipe up the water he spills from the cooler. Cheerios on the floor, a broken dish are no problem. I don’t scold. I am Grandma.
Now there is a little sister who joins us on Tuesdays. Caitlin is a chubby baby who spends her days eating, sleeping and smiling. She is the promise of more firsts.
So every Tuesday my son pulls his SUV into my driveway and unloads babies and bags of diapers, clothes and bottles. A little boy strolls up my walk, smiles and holds out his arms for me to pick him up. Behind him is his father carrying an infant seat overflowing with baby girl. Her eyes crinkle in recognition when she sees me.
“Any time you feel it’s too much, just let us know,” he says.
Not a chance.
Alice Malloy
A Day at Grandmom’s House
The chief pleasure in eating does not consist in costly seasoning, or exquisite flavor, but in yourself.
Horace
My eleven-year-old grandson Ryan was on his way to the school bus when, as he told his mother, his stomach began to bother him. It felt queasy. He didn’t feel he should go to school. My daughter had a doctor’s appointment in another city, so Ryan came to Grandmom’s house.
He looked a bit pale when he walked in, and a bit taller, as if he had grown inches during the night. I settled him down in my big, king-sized bed, put on his favorite TV cartoons, puffed up his pillows as I once did for my own son at his age and asked him if he was hungry. That’s the first thing grandmoms ask under any circumstances.
“I think I could have an orange,” he said listlessly. Usually he was full of energy. Today, his body seemed limp, unable to withstand any physical activity.
So I cut up an orange and delivered it to him on a plate. He gulped it down.
Soon after I asked him again, “Would you like something else to eat?”
“I think I could have two pieces of toast,” he said. “And maybe two hard-boiled eggs.”
“Wonderful,” I responded. I boiled some eggs, buttered some toast, put some jelly on the side and carried it on a tray to his bed.
He gulped it down.
An hour later we were both munching on our favorite cookies.
Followed by potato chips.
Followed by pretzels.
We finished just in time for lunch.
“Would you like a turkey sandwich?” I asked about noon. “With sliced tomatoes?”
“That would be great,” he said.
He had some color in his face now. In fact, he seemed quite content. He lay beneath the blankets, my dog at his feet, the cats by his shoulder, the cartoons playing in the distance.
When lunch was over we attempted a game of cards, but we didn’t have an entire deck. Usually, we find something to talk about, sharing things we don’t share with anyone else. Today, neither one of us seemed in the mood for conversation. So we turned the cartoons back on and had an ice pop, a few more cookies, some water and some cold cereal.
He didn’t move for eight hours. He just ate. And ate.
And ate.
It occurred to me during this eating orgy that I had witnessed the same behavior with my son at the same age. I called it the growth spurt. He would complain about his stomach, saying that he didn’t feel good. And he would stay home from school. And then eat for an entire day. It seemed he grew taller as he devoured the food. Just sprouted up. When you’re eleven, it’s difficult to understand that growing taller takes energy. And food. Grandmoms know exactly what to do about growth spurts—and eleven-year-olds whose bodies are changing as rapidly as the world around them.
An apple, watermelon, lollipops . . . all followed.
My daughter called to inquire about Ryan’s health. “How’s his stomach?” she asked.
“Fine,” I answered.
“Be careful what he eats,” she cautioned.
“I’m being very careful.”
We ended the day with a game of Scrabble. Finally, he turned to me and said, “I’m feeling better, Grandmom. I think I’ve got to get out of here and get some air.”
I smiled. I had done my job. Ryan was ready to go out and face the world again.
Probably two inches taller.
Harriet May Savitz
This Ain’t No Bull
Every house where love abides and friendship is a guest is surely home, and home, sweet home; for there the heart can rest.
Henry Van Dyke
My grandson, Danny, looked in awe at my elbows. He couldn’t understand why or how, when he pulled the skin, it remained out. “That’s cool, Grandma. How do you do that?”
These questions and numerous other adjustments were to follow when our son realized I was getting “up in years” and offered to build me a new home near him on his farm. “Then when you get old, it will be easier to take care of you,” he said politely. He invited me to live with him, his wife and their four children during construction.
I accepted the offer, but I worried what it would be like living with the kids on the farm. I’d had no experience with farming.
On my first day they showed me to my room. Granddaughter Heather had given up her bedroom for me and moved in with her sister, Kari, a sacrifice for both teenagers. “Mom just wallpapered my bedroom, Grandma. Don’t you just love it?” Near the ceiling, a border of horse heads stared down at me.
French doors opened out of the bedroom onto a balcony where the view was spectacular. I watched the horses graze, and I could see the cows, pigs and chickens. A creek wandered into a pond at the bottom of the hill, which a blue heron, geese and ducks shared as their home. Life on the farm, living with the kids began.
I used to sleep in until 8:00 A.M. Life here began about 5:30 A.M. Have you ever heard four hair dryers all going at the same time? Then kids running downstairs, kids running upstairs, then down again? You can’t beat it. So I’d wake up, stretch for a few minutes and say hello to the horses on the wall. They made me grin.
In the evenings in front of the TV, every sofa and chair was filled. On the floor, kids lay in all different directions, along with their dog, Annie, and two cats, Cupcake and Ziggy. Who would have thought those cramped circumstances would be enjoyable? Yet that scene became a lasting memory for me, like a scene from a Norman Rockwell painting.
Being the hip grandma that I am, I thought I ought to learn some of the chores around the farm so I could be of some help. My oldest granddaughter, Shannon, agreed to show me the ropes.
“Come with me, Grandma. We’ll start with the chickens.”
That seemed easy enough. We entered the coop and I immediately noticed a rather large rooster with a big plume on his tail eyeing me, but I continued into the pen. All of a sudden that rooster made a beeline for me and chased me around the pen. He pecked at my ankles, and I screamed. Shannon came after the rooster with a stick to scare it off. I made a huge jump for the fence and hurtled over it . . . landing in a nice mushy pile of cow manure!
Shannon wore a sheepish grin. “Wanna try feeding the horses?”
Granddaughter Kari had put her mare out to be bred a few weeks before. The time came for the vet to visit the farm to perform a pregnancy test. I wanted to be right there to see how this was done. The old vet drove up in his truck and went to the back, I supposed to get what he needed to do the pregnancy test. Now I’m not too smart when it comes to the farm, but I knew he wasn’t going to get that horse to urinate on one of those chemical sticks to watch what color it turned! But when he came out from behind his truck with his arm in a rubber glove up to his shoulder, I gasped!
In this house, the kids did the laundry. I’ve never seen so many pairs of tiny bikini panties, except in department stores. I chuckled when I overheard one of the girls giggle as she unloaded the dryer, “Wow, Grandma wears big underpants!”
One weekend when the family went away, I stayed by myself. While walking down by the pond, I heard a mournful moo-o-o-o come from one of the cows. Upon investigation, I found she had ju
st presented me with a little calf! Sheer excitement! When the family returned, I proudly informed our son that the cow had a calf while they were gone. I’d seen an appendage on the calf’s underside, so I told my son it was a boy. He took me at my word and called a friend to come castrate the little guy, as was routinely done on the farm. He raised the calf’s tail and said, “Uh-oh, guess what? This ain’t no bull, it’s a little heifer.” Everyone looked my way for an answer, but I couldn’t sputter one out.
As you can see, life is not boring when you live with your kids. Eventually my new home was finished and I moved into it. The Norman Rockwell picture changed.
Although I am happy, I miss the laughter and fun of my son’s household.
As you get older, if you are faced with living with your children, don’t be afraid of it. Hang on! Perhaps Rockwell has already painted a picture of the pleasing life you are about to experience. Or maybe you’d like to paint your own picture. Either way, it will be as good as you make it—or better.
Joanie Gilmore
Everything but the Kitchen Sink
We are all here for a spell; get all the good laughs you can.
Will Rogers
By my teenage daughters’ standards, her purse was huge. Theirs were tiny things that could barely hold a lipstick and compact; they wore them on their shoulders just under their arm. Grandma’s handbag, suspended by thick, black leather straps, hung down on her hip. It was big enough to hold everything you could possibly want.
One day we were all in the car when my daughter Shazara spilled some drink on the back seat. “Mom, do you have any napkins?”
“No,” I replied.
Suddenly, Grandma reached for her handbag on the car floor near her feet and opened it wide. Her head almost disappeared inside as she rummaged around, pulling out a handful of napkins.