Grandma

Grandma’s, nana’s, noni’s, bubby’s, big mommies, gamma, big ma’s, abuelita’s. I called mine Ma, she was my mothers mother. My mother called her Ma, so my brother and I called her Ma. When she died I cried for a week and was sad for a year. I can still see her gap toothed smile, Coleman has it. Christmas dinners or Thanksgiving dinners or whatever, looking around the room at the collection of misfits and over and under achieivers that was my family, there was Ma, sitting quietly, observing, sipping ever so daintily from her shot glass half full of Christian Brothers Brandy. Listening mostly, interjecting occasionally, laughing heartily. And she was funny. Cracked me up. I miss her; she’s been gone a long time, over 15 years, maybe closer to 20, but not quite.

My other grandmother, my father’s mother died a couple of weeks ago. I didn’t know her. One of the many tragedies of divorce. She died alone, in a nursing home. I didn’t even know where it was. It wasn’t Alzheimers, she was just sad. She birthed and buried all three of her children. First she lost her husband of I don’t know how many years, grandpa Sam. He lost part of his arm in World War 2. He was always in bed sick and he smoked foul cigars. But at the end of every visit, he would call my brother and me into his room, take out his wallet, hold the wallet against his body with his nub and hand us cash with his good hand. I believe to this day it’s why I’m not squeamish around handicapped people, I always think they’ll hand me money.

Just a couple of years after grandpa Sam died, grandma lost her youngest, Sam Jr., and then just 4 years later my father. I was about 14. About 5 years ago Her last remaining child, my Aunt Amy, a nurse, woke up one morning with a pain in her shoulder, after a couple of days, she decided to have it checked out. She was informed she had cancer, in her lungs and stomach and liver. She was given a few weeks to live, it didn't take that long. That was the last straw for my grandmother, she checked out. She was past crying, past pain, past grief, her mind was wherever her children were; she was just waiting for her body to catch up.

My Aunt Amy’s 2 daughters, my younger cousins took on the task of looking after my grandmothers empty shell. They tried keeping her in her home, it became too much. Nursing home was the only option. I can’t even tell you how long she’d been there, 3 years, 4 years, 2 years; I don’t know and never bothered to ask. So needless to say I never visited. So when the body of Cara Lee Williams, age 83, joined her spirit and her family, it was without fanfare. My cousins had her cremated and buried and then called us a couple of weeks later. At first of course I was indignant, after all I’m #1 grand, how many baby pictures they got, a couple, maybe a page. I got volumes a through z. I got over my indignation.

There was a small memorial service. I read the eulogy. Just as I was leaving the podium, the pastor asked me to say a few words about my grandmother. I hadn’t prepared anything. Thank God I’m a ham at heart. I spoke of the time we took a 24 hour bus trip to Dothan, Alabama for a family reunion. If the United States were a body, Dothan would be the armpit. I remembered how proud she was to have her oldest son's children with her. She often introduced me as Steven, my father's name, sometimes she corrected herself, sometimes not. The last time I saw her, at my Aunt Amy's funeral, I was Steven. I remembered how dignified and proud and fashionable she was, I also remembered how incredibly messy she was. Her home was a disaster area, clothes everywhere, but when she stepped out of her house, she was as clean as the board of health.
That made people laught, the pastor thanked me for bringing levity to the occasion. Levity is my middle name.

I want Coleman to get to know his grandma’s. I wish Roz’s family were closer. Did I say that? I’m kidding, I adore them; I never deny the opportunity to visit them in DC, no matter how brief. My mom just turned 60; we had a surprise birthday party for her this past weekend. We’ve had a very scary fortunate year. Mom is as recovered as recovered can be. With almost no remnants of the stroke she had the day before Coleman’s christening. On the days when his parents are stupid, clueless, unhip buffoons, hopefully Coleman will have his grandmothers to look to for comfort.

Karma

I'm having good Karma. I left my cell phone in a taxi. The next passenger called Roz's phone from mine to say he was leaving it at a bar he was going to. I got it back the next day.

A few weeks before that Roz and I found a cell phone in the lobby of our building, we scrolled through the contact list and knew right away it was a kid's phone, there were no dignified names like Constance or Alibastair - every name was Kiki or Nay Nay, or La La or Tre Boom, we scrolled until we found mom. Mom sounded as if she had no idea her little girl was on 43rd St and 9th Ave, but she was thankful we called. We left the phone at the front desk and went on about our way.

So I"m feeling good about my Karma. Not really sure what it is or how or why I believe in it. Is Karma really a balancing of the universe - the good or bad done by me will come back to me in some form or fashion. When I really think about that, it doesn't seem right.

What about the women in Darfur? Raped, beaten, husbands and sons killed, daughters raped, homes burned to the ground. Exiled from their land. What did they do to get their karma?

What about all those people who sat in shit in the superdome? What did they do to the universe to deserve such misfortune?

What is the universe trying to tell these people? Or is the message for the rest of us?

When the grocery cashier gives me too much change, I always return it. Does that mean I won't get hit by a bus?

What is a proportional response?

What do I have to give the universe in order to get back - let's say - a Faberge Egg.

I'm not even sure what a Faberge Egg is worth or where to get one or where I'd unload it. But I know they're rare and valuable.

I want peace in the world. I want George Bush and his war loving cronies out of office. I want to write the great American novel, that turns into the great American screenplay, that becomes the great American Broadway musical, that becomes the great American TV series.

I want my son to grow up happy and healthy. I want to grow old with Roz.

How many phones do I have to return to get all of that?

One Of Them

I remember the moment I became one of "them." One of those parents. I found myself playing the - What does your child do game.

They were hanging out in the lobby - I knew they didn't live in our building, her son Jackson was sitting in a $829 Bugaboo stroller, nobody in our building has one of those.

As we walked by, she asked how old Coleman was, "one year next Tuesday," I replied. Coleman gave her his best 2 tooth smile. She replied, "look at that beautiful smile," then she added "by a year Jackson already had eight teeth." Bitch! Here we go!

"Wow eight teeth already," I can't stand her, but I'm smiling. I asked not really caring."How old is Jackson?" "He's 14 months old, she grinned while wiping Jackson's nose. 14 months? I was still doing the baby month math when I asked, "how old was Jackson when he started to walk?"

She said - I love this part - "he's not walking yet." Gotcha!!! Bee-Acth!!

I fixed a stare as I lowered the boom. "Coleman started walking 3 weeks ago."

Trying to mask the hurt and disappointment on her face, "he's walking already."

Smiling so big, she could see my lower intestine, "yep he's on the go."

Pulling at the seams of her size 18 Seven jeans, "Jackson shows no interest in walking."

If I was being tooled around in a $829 stroller, I wouldn't show any interest in walking either. I didn't say that of course, but I transmitted it telepathically as Coleman and I were waving goodbye.

Then I did a terrible thing y'all.

I took Coleman out of his stroller so she and Jackson could watch him walk away. Coleman was tired and not in the mood, but somehow he sensed my need to be an ass. And he obliged.

When we were out of sight, I picked him up and promised him a pony.

One of them and proud of it.

Shut Up and Stop It

Stop it. Shut up and Stop it. I am not putting my son in commercials. I'm just not gonna do it. Yes he's cute - thank you. But so what. Why can't that be enough? What's so great about being in an Old Navy commercial? OK so maybe we can make a little bit of money. Enough for a college education? Shut up and stop it. I'll pay for his college education. I can't pay for it right now, but he's not going right now. Maybe he'll get a scholarship or I'll get another job, or he'll get a job. There are other options to pay for college other than putting my 2 year old to work.

Like getting him into commercials is that easy. We may have to take him to dozens and dozens of audtions before he booked a commercial.

We're loosing generations of kids who just want to be famous. You can't cure cancer if you're standing on line waiting to be judged by Randy, Paula and Simon.

Look it's no biggie, not gonna do it.

So shut up and stop it.